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BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

Published by Berkley

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019

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Murder, She Wrote copyright © 2025 Universal City Studios LLC

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Cover design by Lila Selle

Interior design adapted for ebook

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Fletcher, Jessica, author. | Moran, Terrie Farley, author.

Title: A body in Boston : a Murder, she wrote mystery / a novel by Jessica

Fletcher & Terrie Farley Moran.

Description: New York : Berkley Prime Crime, 2025. | Series: Murder, she wrote | “Based on the Universal television series created by Peter S. Fischer, Richard Levinson & William Link.”

Identifiers: LCCN 2024052793 (print) | LCCN 2024052794 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593820193 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593820209 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Fletcher, Jessica--Fiction. |

Murder--Investigation--Massachusetts--Boston--Fiction. | Boston (Mass.)--Fiction. | LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Novels.

Classification: LCC PS3552.A376 B63 2025 (print) | LCC PS3552.A376 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54--dc23/eng/20250226

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2024052793

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2024052794

Ebook ISBN 9780593820209

The authorized representative in the EU for product safety and compliance is Penguin Random House Ireland, Morrison Chambers, 32 Nassau Street, Dublin D02 YH68, Ireland, https://eu-contact.penguin.ie.

ep_prh_7.3a_152007260_c0_r0

Joan and John Russell

Shannon and Robert Moran

Best children and children-in-law ever

Chapter One

One of the great joys of living in Cabot Cove, Maine, is that there are so many excellent options for me to get an hour of fresh air and exercise riding my ancient but still trusty bicycle. This morning I’d spent time pedaling on the outskirts of town along the path of a high ridge that never fails to offer spectacular views in every direction. When I reached the flagpole, my usual turnaround spot, I stopped to watch a fishing boat make its way out of the harbor, enter the cove that gave our town its name, and head out to the Atlantic. I took a few deep breaths, filled my lungs with fresh country air, and then set out for home.

As I made a left onto Candlewood Lane, I saw the mail truck parked at the top of the next block, so I suspected that Lindy, our new mail carrier, had already been to my mailbox and, with any luck, had left me a letter from a friend, although I knew it was more likely that she’d deposited a few of this month’s bills, or perhaps passed on by, leaving my mailbox empty.

I hopped off my bike and pushed it up the walkway toward my front door. When I got to the mailbox, I could see the banner of the latest issue of National Geographic pushing the lid just high enough that the magazine appeared to be peeping at me. I pulled it out along with several envelopes and a flyer advertising a housewares sale at Charles Department Store.

The first two envelopes were the usual household bills, but the third looked interesting. A medium-sized square envelope made of high-quality cream-colored paper, it was addressed to me in delicate handwritten calligraphy. I guessed it was an invitation of some sort. A wedding, perhaps?

I flipped the envelope, and the return address was a pleasant surprise.

The Boston Public Library

Inside was a printed invitation that I found to be quite extraordinary.

YOU ARE CORDIALL Y INVITED TO ATTEND

AN AFTERNOON WITH MYSTERY WRITER J. B. FLETCHER

AT THE BOSTON CENTRAL LIBRARY

COPLEY SQUARE

That was all. No date and no RSVP phone number. Fortunately I knew exactly who was behind this intriguing invitation. I stashed my bicycle in the shed and went into the house, tossed National Geographic and my bills on the kitchen table, opened my address book to the S page, and dialed the cell phone number of my old friend Marshall Stryback, the director of the Boston Public Library.

When Marshall answered and heard it was me on the line, he began to snort merrily, then said, “My dear Jessica, it is so good to hear from you. I suppose this means you received my invitation.” I could almost see him raise his bushy gray eyebrows as he mentally congratulated himself for getting my undivided attention.

“I received an invitation of sorts—one that invites me, Jessica Fletcher, to meet the writer J. B. Fletcher. Neat trick there.” I tried to sound as serious as I could manage given the silliness of the circumstances.

Marshall laughed out loud. “It certainly caught your eye and got you to dial the phone. I was afraid you’d be on deadline or so immersed in research that a letter from me might go unnoticed, whereas a formal-looking invitation…”

“Would be something I’d have a hard time resisting.” After finishing his sentence, I gave a chuckle of my own. “The first thing I noticed is there is no date for the presentation.”

“And that, my dear Jessica, is because we are desperately anxious to have you come to Boston and speak with your adoring fans, so I want to personally accommodate your availability. If you are at all interested, and I sincerely hope that you are, I have a list of dates we here at the library think would be superb. None of them have major sports or entertainment events scheduled, so whatever date you choose should belong to you and you alone.”

An ancient memory flashed through my mind. When my first published novel, The Corpse Danced at Midnight, was released and I was invited to speaking engagements, I had an exaggerated fear of standing in a bookshop or library talking to row upon row of empty chairs. The thought flashed through my mind that it would be extraordinarily kind of the library to check Boston’s entertainment calendars for newly published authors rather than for old hands like me.

I listened as Marshall rattled off the dates, and I instantly noted several conflicts with my personal life but was pleased to find a nice ten-day window that had three different opportunities for me to speak at the library. Marshall was delighted when I acknowledged I was definitely interested and would get back to him in a day or so with a firm date.

After a few pleasantries, we said good-bye, and I reheated a cup of coffee from the potful I’d made earlier in the morning and popped a slice of whole grain bread into the toaster. Once the toast was up and I’d drizzled some honey on it and set it next to my coffee, I sat down with my calendar. It took me hardly any time at all to select the only Wednesday among the dates Marshall had proffered. A midweek commitment would allow my travel plans to be flexible and I could include time to visit old friends or perhaps take in a show on either side of my presentation date.

Experience had taught me that before I confirmed with Marshall and marked it on my calendar, I should call Nancy Pollard, my energetic and always enthusiastic publicist. She was bound to have an idea or two about how I should spend at least some of my spare time in Boston.

“Jessica, it is so great to hear from you. Are you ready for me to set up a book tour for your next release?” I could almost see her bright blue eyes twinkling at the thought of sending me off to live out of a suitcase for weeks on end. I often suspected the client of Nancy’s dreams would be the writer who was willing to hit all seven continents in the space of a month’s time.

I couldn’t help but smile. “Not exactly, although I am calling with travel news. I’ve received an invitation to speak about my work, and I am sure you will be delighted to hear that I have accepted.”

“With an intro like that, you know I’m all ears.”

“I have been invited to the Boston Central Library on Copley Square.”

“Boston Central! That is a big deal. I know publicists who angle for years and can’t get their clients an invitation, and here, with no help from me, you manage to get asked to the ball, Cinderella. What is your secret?” Happy as she was for me, her curiosity won out. If I had a tried-and-true technique to get an author invited to Boston Central, Nancy wanted to know what it was.

I was sorry to disappoint her. “There’s no secret, I’m afraid. Some years ago, I met Marshall Stryback when he and I both volunteered in a program to support innovative reading curricula in the Boston public school system. We have been friends ever since. Marshall has invited me to speak in the library quite often, but my schedule is so tight that I rarely can honor his request. Fortunately, this is one time I am not buried with work or personal commitments, so I gleefully said yes.”

“And I am so glad you did,” Nancy answered, then immediately turned to the business at hand. “How much time are you planning to spend in Boston? And when exactly will you be presenting at Central?”

When I told her the date I was scheduled to speak, as well as my approximate departure and return dates, Nancy continued to probe. “And do you have any social engagements?”

“Not as yet, but I certainly plan to visit some of my Boston friends and roam around a bit. It has been quite a while since I spent time in Boston, and I do enjoy the city.”

Still all business, Nancy said, “Promise me that as you confirm your plans, you will keep me informed so that I can plug in a bookshop or reading club without conflicting with your social life.”

Nancy was clearly determined to ensure that my personal plans would not become a roadblock to my professional success. I found it amusing but recognized that she took her job seriously, and who was I to get in her way? I agreed and we ended the call.

My next call was to Susan Shevlin, our local travel agent and wife of Cabot Cove mayor Jim Shevlin. No matter where I traveled or how often I had to change plans midtrip, Susan was an absolute gem in arranging or rearranging my itinerary at a moment’s notice with no fuss, no muss.

I gave her a brief outline of my loosely formed thoughts, and as always, Susan had valuable suggestions. “I’ll check with Jed Richardson and see what his schedule looks like around the time of your probable coming and going. Boston is such a short flight, I’m sure once your plans are firmed up, Jed will be able to oblige. Now, as far as accommodations, if you don’t have any specific hotel in mind, I recommend the Revere Hotel since it is so close to Boston Common, and I know how you enjoy your outdoor exercise wherever you may be. Not to mention it’s in the theater district in case you decide to catch a show or two while you’re there.”

I agreed that the Revere was an excellent choice, and just as Nancy had done, Susan asked that I keep her informed as my plans became more certain.

By the time the call ended, I was quite pleased with myself for contacting both Nancy and Susan so quickly. Now I could get on with my plan for the day, which was to straighten out my gardening shed and decide which tools and supplies needed to be replaced now that spring was so close at hand.

The next morning was cloudy but didn’t appear to be threatening rain, so I pulled my trusty bicycle out to the street and pedaled toward the wharf. I stopped at the rack at the edge of the shops above the wharf, bumped my bicycle over the lower rung, and secured it.

I stood for a minute, taking deep breaths of the fresh salty air while I marveled at the view below me. I never tired of it. Waves were breaking softly against the boats docked along the harbor. A couple of fishermen getting a late start were casting off a nifty-looking skiff painted an unusual light green. After a few more deep breaths, I headed to Mara’s Luncheonette, where I hoped to enjoy a relaxing breakfast with dear friends.

As soon as I opened the door, the tantalizing aromas of coffee, eggs, pancakes, bacon, and sausage caused my stomach to growl ever so slightly. Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Mort Metzger, saw me enter and waved me over to our usual table. Dan Andrews, editor of the Cabot Cove Gazette, and my dear friend and everyone’s favorite doctor Seth Hazlitt were already seated.

I hurried toward them and was barely in my seat and still saying good morning when Mara was at my elbow with a pot of coffee. She filled the empty cup at my place setting and then made a slight circle with the coffeepot, offering it to my friends. Seth held his cup toward Mara for a refill, and while she was pouring, she said, “I’m so glad you got here when you did, Jessica. These boys were arguing about whether to order or to give you a few more minutes. Now the problem is solved. What’ll it be, folks?”

In a few seconds, we’d ordered four short stacks of Mara’s famous blueberry pancakes. Dan and Mort opted for sides of sausage, and Seth surprised me by ordering ham. And of course Mara couldn’t escape before Seth reminded her, as he always did, that his pancakes would require extra butter.

Mara retorted, “And don’t I always bring the extra butter especially for you?” and turned on her heel to place our orders without giving Seth a chance to respond.

Seth looked at the three of us and justified his perpetual request by saying, “Busy morning like this, she could easily forget, now, couldn’t she?”

While Dan nodded politely, Mort ignored Seth entirely and turned to me. “How’ve you been, Mrs. F.? Maureen was just saying last night that we haven’t seen you for a while.”

Mort’s second wife, Maureen, is a sweet person who takes every friend and neighbor under her wing at the least sign that they have a problem or need a sympathetic ear.

I shook my head. “I know. I have been a bit housebound, or should I say yardbound. Spring is coming, and the part of my garden that isn’t overrun with weeds is covered with bare patches. My entire property is in need of some serious attention. It has been keeping me busy the past few days, and I suspect that will continue for the next few as well. But I do have exciting news.”

Dan gave me a shy smile. “Is it the kind of news that the readers of the Gazette will want to know?”

“They might, and I am hoping that the readers of the Boston Globe will find it interesting as well.” I grinned at him and said no more.

“Boston Globe? That’s a top newspaper. Are you being interviewed about your books?” Dan leaned toward me, genuinely interested in my answer.

“Well, nothing is scheduled as yet…” I gave him what I hoped was a mysterious smile.

Before Dan could ask another question, Seth, in a voice louder than I thought was necessary, said, “Woman, stop speaking in riddles. Why does the Boston Globe want to interview you?”

“I don’t know that they do, but they may wish to schedule an interview when they find out that I have been asked to make a presentation in the Boston Central Library.” I looked around for my friends’ reactions.

“Why didn’t you say so?” Seth asked. “When is all this happening? As it turns out, I might be going to Boston myself in the not too distant future. My old med school buddy Jason Lancaster has been invited to give a lecture about the advances in geriatric care that the research center he is affiliated with has been developing. He’ll be speaking at Brigham and Women’s Hospital. If your book talk and his speech are anywhere near each other, we could travel down together and maybe visit some museums. We might even sneak in an evening to hear the Boston Symphony Orchestra or the Boston Pops, whichever has a performance that fits with our trip.”

I thought it was a wonderful idea; still, I couldn’t help but tease Seth. “I can’t fathom why you would suggest going to a concert when you know as well as I do that at every concert we have ever attended, you’ve fallen asleep before the first intermission.”

Mort’s chortle was louder than Dan’s laugh. Both made Seth indignant, and he stridently denied doing anything more than “resting his eyes” to the beat of the music, be it written by Chopin or Duke Ellington.

Mara came back with our breakfasts, which caused everyone to quiet down. While she was placing plates of steaming pancakes in front of each of us, Seth told me the date of Dr. Lancaster’s lecture, and it turned out we had been invited to speak at our very different venues only a few days apart.

“Oh, Seth, we can definitely travel together. I have already spoken to Susan Shevlin, and she is checking out Jed’s availability to fly me down, so when I get home, do you want me to tell her to add you to the roster?” Seth nearly always needed to be prodded into doing anything that required leaving Cabot Cove for more than a few hours.

Sure enough, he said, “Not so fast. I need to check my patient appointment schedule and see if I can manage to get away. I will call you once I know what my time frame looks like.”

Seth picked up his fork and dug into his pancakes, signaling that, as far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.

Mort held up his coffee cup to signal Mara that he was ready for a refill. After she topped off his cup and mine, Mort asked me if, while I was in Boston, I would have a chance to see my friend Harry McGraw, a private investigator who had often helped me with a knotty puzzle and just as often been the cause of the conundrum itself.

Before I could answer, Seth said, “Honestly, Mort, it isn’t necessary for Jessica to visit McGraw every time she’s in Boston.” He sounded so impertinent that I was nearly offended.

I cleared that up immediately. “Of course I am going to call Harry to see when we can get together. After all, what would a trip to Boston be without having a delicious dinner of shepherd’s pie at Gilhooley’s at least once? Twice if I am lucky.”

Seth didn’t reply but simply sat nibbling on his pancakes while Dan diplomatically switched the conversation to the upcoming hospital fundraiser. Suddenly Seth interrupted and said, “Jess, don’t forget to wait until you hear from me before you call Susan to firm up your travel plans.”

And that was when I became certain I would not be traveling to Boston alone. Still, I had no idea that our fun trip to a city I loved would be turned topsy-turvy by a distressing event involving my very dear friends.

Chapter Two

Seth called me the following morning, and he was brimming with enthusiasm, more than ready to fly off to Boston. He had spoken to Jason Lancaster, who was delighted to hear that Seth would be able to attend his lecture. He assured Seth that he would be staying in Boston for a few weeks, so they would have plenty of time to catch up.

“Ayuh, Jason sounded happy as a clam at high water to have a chance to talk about the days gone by with an old friend. Appears he was afraid that as an independent practitioner, or what he called an old-fashioned country doctor, I would have a hard time getting away from my practice and my patients for even a day or so. Now, tell me, Jess, what are our plans for this part-work, part-vacation?”

Seth and I took more than a few minutes of back-and-forth before we came up with dates that worked well for both of our purposes. Once that was done, I told Seth that Susan Shevlin had suggested we stay at the Revere Hotel on Stuart Street just off the Boston Common.

“I stayed there for a conference a few years back. It is a really convenient location no matter where in Boston you want to go,” Seth said. “Brigham and Women’s Hospital isn’t far away, and Jason told me he is staying at the Four Seasons Hotel, which, as I recall, is only a couple of blocks from the Revere. I guess research pays rather well,” Seth ended wryly.

“I’m glad you are pleased; it is a good location for me as well,” I said, gently reminding Seth that this was, after all, originally my trip.

“Well, that’s settled then. We are fortunate to have a crackerjack travel agent to handle the details. Can I leave it to you to call Susan and let her take it from there? My first patient of the day is in the waiting room. Talk to you later.” Seth hung up without giving me a chance to agree or to even say good-bye.

Before I called Susan, I thought I’d better check in with Nancy Pollard on the slight chance that she had found something she wanted me to do, which I would need to be sure fit the dates Seth and I had chosen. If I had to slide a day one way or the other, it would be better to know before our travel arrangements were made.

Nancy answered her phone on the second ring.

“Jessica, I can’t believe it. I was just about to call you. I have fabulous news.” Her voice was even more spirited than usual. “Tell me what you know about the Massachusetts Reading Association.”

I had to admit she had me stumped. “Honestly, I never heard of it. Is that a newly formed group?”

“No, it’s been around for decades. It’s a statewide nonprofit that is part of the International Literacy Association. These are your people, Jessica. The organization includes teachers, students, and many other interested parties who promote literacy in a variety of creative ways. As it happens, they’re having their annual convention in Boston at the same time you’re planning to be there. What do you think?” I was sure her blue eyes were twinkling happily.

“First off, I think you are going to ask me if I would be interested in meeting with ‘my people’ and speaking to them about the importance of reading and how that impacts my writing. Second, I think that, with a bit more information about the group, I might be easily persuaded to say yes.”

“Terrific. I’ll email you all the details about the convention immediately, and you can call me back with a definite yes or no after you’ve had a chance to review their work,” Nancy said.

As soon as we’d hung up, I walked over to my computer and hit the button to power it up. By the time I sat down and opened my email program, there, at the top of my inbox, was Nancy’s message, titled “Massachusetts Reading Association.” As I clicked her email open, the kettle whistled. I went to the kitchen and poured the boiling water into a mug holding an orange pekoe tea bag. I covered the mug with a saucer to speed along the tea’s steeping, carried it back to the computer, and read Nancy’s email. It didn’t take me long to sift through the information on the organization’s website, which was the first link I opened.

I soon realized that in our conversation, Nancy had only mentioned the tip of the iceberg. While she was correct that the association’s mission statement focused on improving “the quality and level of literacy” throughout the state of Massachusetts, I was even more impressed with the fact that the conference drew upon a strong level of participation from its regular membership. These were clearly battle-ready people, and through their efforts, the scourge of illiteracy was bound to lessen year by year.

I emailed Nancy and told her that I would be more than happy to work with them. Then I called Susan Shevlin.

“Jessica, your timing couldn’t be better,” she said. “As it happens, I have Jed’s calendar right in front of me.”

Jed Richardson, a lifelong resident of our little town, is the owner and pilot of Jed’s Flying Service, which is headquartered in one of the two hangars at the Cabot Cove Airport. His latest plane was a very comfortable six-seater, single-engine Cessna 210. For many years Jed had stayed with his Cessna 172P, which, though speedy and trustworthy, was a four-seater that felt cramped whenever the passenger seats were all in use, no matter how short the trip.

“Well, that is serendipitous,” I said, “because I have some dates I’d like you to check to see if they fit Jed’s schedule. And I will not be traveling alone. Seth Hazlitt has asked to join me, as he has a friend who will be in Boston on medical business at the same time I am going to be there.”

“Isn’t that nice. I will book you both into the Revere. Do you want adjoining rooms?” Susan asked.

“No,” I said, “that won’t be necessary, but being on the same floor would be convenient. We both hope to get in a little vacation time—museums, dinner with friends, that sort of thing.”

Susan moved on to her next question. “From what I see here, Jed is available on the day you wish to fly down to Boston. If there is no delay in landing, he should be able to get you on the ground at Logan International Airport in just about an hour,” Susan said in her clipped business voice. “Based on that, do you have a preferred departure time?”

I thought for a moment. “Well, I suppose late morning or early afternoon would get us to Logan in time to take a cab to the hotel, unpack, freshen up, and perhaps take a nice walk through Boston Common before dinner. Although I must say that whatever works for Jed will probably be fine for the two of us.”

We chatted for a few more minutes about local Cabot Cove gossip. Susan was elated to be the first to tell me that Lavinia Wahl had finally agreed that her thirty-foot boat was getting to be too much for her to handle, after it had nearly capsized in a relatively calm sea when she was out fishing. “I heard she’s looking for something smaller, although you would think that at her age, taking a boat out, especially on her own, is just foolhardy.”

After Susan assured me that she would let me know the exact time of our departure and would notify Demetri and Nick, two cousins who’d run our local cab company for years, we ended the call.

I sat at my kitchen table with a cup of tea and made a list of all that I should do before I went to Boston. I needed to notify Grady and Donna that I would be traveling, put a hold on both my mail and my delivery of the Cabot Cove Gazette, and ask my neighbor Maeve O’Bannon to keep an eye on my yard. I had spent too much time getting it in shape to let it go to rack and ruin the minute I turned my back.

As soon as I wrote Call Harry, I changed my mind, because so often he was busy on a case, and I’d heard him say more than once that phone calls were a nuisance. Glad I had thought of it, I texted:

Coming to Boston fairly soon and hope to see you. Let me know if you are around.

Then I went back to my to-do list but was interrupted when the phone rang. I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was, because Harry McGraw was adept at doing the unexpected. And I certainly hadn’t expected to hear from him so quickly.

“Jessica! You’re coming to town! That’s almost as good as hearing Santa Claus is coming!” He must have put his hand over the phone because his voice became muffled, although I heard him say, “Ain’t that right, Cookie?”

I couldn’t hear Cookie’s reply, but the fact they were together told me that Harry was likely sitting at the bar in Gilhooley’s, a local Boston restaurant complete with a regulation-sized pool table at which, to hear Harry tell it, he frequently won a game or two by taking on anyone who was willing to make a wager. Cookie, a good-natured older man with gray hair and a slight paunch, was everybody’s favorite bartender, including mine.

“Cookie says he can’t wait to see you. Neither can I, so give me all the details.”

I gave Harry a brief rundown of the plans I knew so far.

When I mentioned that I was speaking at Boston Central Library, Harry stopped me by saying, “You do know that is the crème de la crème of Boston literary society, don’t you? Why, when my book comes out, I don’t think they’ll even let me speak to the mice in the basement, never mind to readers in the main hall.”

“Harry, you never mentioned that you were writing a book. How exciting. What is it about?” I asked.

“It’s not that I’m writing a book now, but in my line of work, you know as well as I do that every job is a chapter. I just have to get it all down on paper.”

“Oh, I see.” As a writer, I was used to being approached by people who had a great book in mind—they needed only to write it—so I switched topics before Harry could go further. “Did I mention Seth Hazlitt has a medical lecture to attend at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, so he will be joining me?”

“So, the doc is coming along for the ride. Well, the more the merrier,” Harry said. “Er, I don’t suppose he shoots pool?”

Cookie guffawed so loudly I could hear him through Harry’s phone.

“Harry,” I warned, “don’t you even attempt to hustle Seth.”

“Hustle? Who, me? Jessica, what do you take me for?” Harry tried to sound offended, but we both ended up laughing.

Then I promised to text him a more precise schedule as soon as I had one.

When I mentioned that Seth and I would be staying at the Revere Hotel, Harry said, “Great, now I know where to leave messages for you. Don’t you forget that Cookie can always find me.”

* * *

The days flew by, and early on a bright sunny morning, Demetri was parked in front of my house with Seth in the front passenger seat.

As soon as I opened my door, Demetri came down the walkway, saying, “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. Let me take that suitcase.”

I surrendered it willingly and returned his greeting while I locked the door.

“It’s a beautiful day for flying,” Demetri said as we strolled to his shiny blue Subaru. “I often feel jealous of the passengers I drive to the airport. They are off on adventures and I am not. But that is life, I suppose, different for everyone.”

I murmured my agreement just as we were interrupted by my neighbor Maeve O’Bannon.

“There you are, Jessica. I was afraid I’d missed you.” She held out a small paper bag. “I baked some scones. We can’t have you and the good doctor traveling on empty stomachs, now, can we, Demetri?”

He sniffed and said, “If that is orange and cranberry I smell, Mrs. Fletcher and Dr. Hazlitt are two lucky travelers.”

Maeve pulled her other hand from behind her back and held it out to Demetri. “Can’t have the driver go hungry, now, can we?”

Demetri set down my suitcase, took the bag, opened it, reached inside, and sighed. “Ahhh, still warm. Miss O’Bannon, please do not tell Mrs. Sassi at the bakery or Mara at the Luncheonette that you are my favorite baker. As soon as I see Mrs. Fletcher and Dr. Hazlitt safely into Jed Richardson’s hands, I will open my thermos of coffee and enjoy your always tasty baked goods. I thank you.” Demetri smiled, picked up my luggage, and strode to the car.

Maeve squeezed my hand, an act that showed more affection than she generally demonstrated. “Have a safe trip, and no need to worry about your yard or your lawn. I will see to it all.”

She turned and walked back to her own house. I climbed in to the back seat of the Subaru, and we were off.

When, for the second time, Seth commented that the aroma of scones was making him hungry, I suggested that while we were waiting for Jed to do his usual meticulous check of the Cessna, we could get cups of coffee from the small airport canteen and eat our scones.

Which is exactly what we did. By the time we finished, Jed was ready for us to board.

Once we were on the plane and securely strapped into our seats, Jed made his usual safety speech. I’m sure Seth was as happy as I was to hear that the weather would continue to be fine all the way to Boston.

“I can promise you smooth sailing,” Jed assured us as he began to glide the plane along the runway and lift it gracefully into the sky.

Seth leaned over and whispered to me, “I never understand why Jed always says, ‘Smooth sailing.’ This is a plane, not a boat.”

Since we were sitting right behind Jed in a Cessna 210 and not in row fifteen of a Boeing 747, I tried to shush him, but was too late.

“What’s your problem, Doc?” Jed was laughing. “Not comfortable sailing through the air? You fishermen are all alike. If the ship ain’t in water, you ain’t happy.”

Before Seth could answer, which I suspected might lead to a mocking back-and-forth that was liable to give me a headache, I asked Jed when he estimated we would land at Logan.

He said we’d be on the ground within an hour, but it might take a while for us to disembark. “Logan’s a busy place this time of day. Facts be known, it is busy most all the time. I left myself a good few hours before my slotted departure time. I’d rather spend my time resting in the pilot’s lounge than sitting in this seat on the runway, wasting fuel until I get the go sign.”

Seth had opened the medical magazine he’d brought with him and was reading an article that had captured his attention. I supposed he wanted to be up on the cutting-edge medical news before he met with Jason Lancaster.

I took out my eyeglasses and the book I was currently reading—or rather rereading for perhaps the third or fourth time—The Glass Flame, written years ago by one of my favorite authors, Phyllis A. Whitney. Each time I reread one of Whitney’s books, I discovered brilliant gradations of the storyline that had escaped me previously. Her writing was so subtle that the reader flowed into the story and stayed there, often experiencing shock when they suddenly realized they had reached the final page.

Jed, who’d been whistling off-key for much of the flight, broke into my reverie when he said, “Touchdown in ten.”

Seth, who had nodded off, which had led to his magazine sliding off his lap a good twenty minutes ago, awoke with a start. Once he took in his surroundings, he said, “I guess we are at Logan. Hello, Boston, the adventures begin.”

Chapter Three

Abellman took our luggage from the trunk of our taxi and escorted us to the front desk in the spacious lobby of the Revere Hotel Boston Common. The lobby was extremely sleek and modern, with shining wooden floors and marble walls. Almost in contrast, other walls held murals of the Revolutionary War. Off to the side was a very contemporary metal statue of Paul Revere on his steed, pointing, I would guess, in the direction from which the redcoats were coming.

The desk clerk greeted me with a smile of genuine welcome, and when I gave her my name she said, “Oh my, Mrs. Fletcher, I see you are quite popular. There is a note in the computer indicating you have several messages. Let me get them for you.”

She took a few steps, opened a drawer on the back wall, and when she returned handed me two small envelopes with Revere Hotel printed in the top-left corner and my name handwritten in the center. I put them in my purse and finished registering so that I would not hold up Seth, who was at the tail end of his check-in right beside me.

When we got off the elevator, the bellman stopped in front of a door, and as he opened it, he said, “Mrs. Fletcher, I believe you will find this suite extremely comfortable, and your balcony has an excellent sky view. Dr. Hazlitt’s room is directly across the hall.” He accepted his tip, saluted me by touching his bellman’s cap with two fingers, and said that, should I need assistance with anything else, his name was Mike. Then he escorted Seth to his room. Once in my suite, I sat on the sofa, opened my purse, and took out the envelopes I had picked up from the reception desk. The first held a note from Marshall Stryback, inviting me to high tea the next day at the tearoom in the main library.

The second message was from Harry McGraw. He invited us to meet him for dinner at Gilhooley’s, then ended by saying, I can’t wait to tell you about my newest client. Really top-shelf. I’m going to make buckets of bucks on this job. See you later.

I was nearly finished unpacking when Seth knocked on my door. As soon as he stepped inside, he said, “Look at this suite! Very fancy couch and chairs, while I have one little chair stuck in the corner of my room.”

He walked over to the glass doors that led to the balcony. “At least my room has a balcony and a nice view, though it’s not as dramatic as the one you’ll wake up to each morning. Look at that skyline!”

“Oh, Seth, stop it,” I said. “I am sure that before she booked with the hotel, Susan Shevlin gave you the same room options that she gave to me. I picked a suite because I may have some people in for coffee or cocktails, depending on how my library talk goes. You never know who may show up, and I have a lot of friends in Boston.”

Seth grumbled under his breath but didn’t contradict me, at least not out loud.

“And speaking of friends,” I continued, “Harry McGraw has invited us to meet him at Gilhooley’s for dinner this evening, which, once I finish unpacking, will give us time to stroll over to the Public Garden next to the Boston Common and see how the greenery has fared since the winter storms. I am sure we can catch a cab from there to Gilhooley’s.”

“I suppose we have to eat somewhere. Gilhooley’s, it is,” Seth acquiesced. “Speaking of food, it’s well past noon and we haven’t had lunch yet.”

“I am sure we will pass a food cart on the way to the garden and will be able to grab something light. In every city I visit, I always look for food carts. I think of them as an adventure in dining,” I said.

“As long as it doesn’t lead to an adventure in food poisoning.” Seth was ever the doctor, even on vacation.

I quickly changed the topic. “Why don’t you go back to your room and change from those wingtip oxfords to a pair of walking shoes? As soon as I am finished unpacking, I will knock for you.”

Seth looked down at the black suede pumps I was wearing and gave me his “what’s good for the goose is good for the gander” grin. “I suggest that you consider changing your footwear as well.”

He was still laughing as he closed the door behind him.

* * *

A while later, we left the hotel, walked along Charles Street, and headed west on Boylston Street. Seth was excited to spot a food cart on the edge of the Public Garden and was over the moon when he saw the menu, loaded with fish specialties. We sat at a tiny café-style table just behind the cart and feasted on fried crab cake sandwiches and iced tea.

We took our time enjoying our food and the view of the lush trees and grass all around us. We could also see the upper floors and roofs of some of the finest buildings in Boston peering at us over the trees, the kind of view we were not used to seeing at home in Cabot Cove.

We sat for a few minutes and finished sipping our tea, then cleaned off our table and stood. Seth looked at me as if I were a tour guide and said, “Where to now?”

“I always enjoy walking around the pond when I am here.” And I pointed the way.

We entered the park, but just as I caught a glimpse of the pond straight ahead of us, Seth veered off to my right and was waving me to follow. “Jess, look at this statue. Must be some Revolutionary War hero. Who do you think it is?”

“I know who it is. I’ve been to this park many times. That is Tadeusz Kościuszko, who emigrated from the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth to take part in the American Revolution. Although I was primarily an English teacher, one year I subbed for a history teacher who was recovering from a broken leg, and the students were endlessly fascinated with the Revolutionary War heroes like Kościuszko, the Marquis de Lafayette, Baron von Steuben, and others, who came from all over Europe to join in the fight. They trained soldiers and gave General Washington the support he needed to create and maintain a battle-ready army.”

Seth nodded as if every word I said were now locked in his brain, but in reality, he was already moving down the path. He stopped in front of another statue and looked over his shoulder to say, “This uniform doesn’t look anything like the Revolution. He served in the Civil War, if I had to guess.”

“And you would be correct. That is Union Army Colonel Thomas Cass. As I recall, he was the commanding officer of the Ninth Regiment Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry. He was wounded in battle and died shortly afterward. And there is an interesting story about this statue.”

Seth looked curious. “Really? Do you mean an interesting story about the statue or about the man himself?”

“Definitely the statue. Everyone agreed that Colonel Cass should be honored, but when the original granite statue was erected, the soldiers who had served under him disliked it. They argued with the city for a new statue. Then the old soldiers raised the money to have the statue razed and this lovely brass statue cast in Colonel Cass’s honor. Mind you, this all happened in 1899, decades after the war had ended. The soldiers who made this happen were no longer young men.”

Seth stood completely still for several minutes. I thought perhaps he was remembering his own time in the service, so I was not completely surprised when he saluted the statue and said, “If, so many years after the war, his men thought so much of him that they gathered the strength to fight to have him properly honored, he must have been the best kind of CO.”

Then his head shook almost involuntarily, as if he was erasing a memory or an emotion he didn’t want to surface. Seth looked at his watch, took me by the arm, and led me back the way we’d come. “Now, you said you wanted to walk along the pond. We have plenty of time for a stroll.”

Our walk along the shore was unhurried and relaxing. Dusk was finally settling in when we found our way to the exit and saw three taxis lined up in a cab stand across Boylston Street, near the entrance to the Four Seasons Hotel. We hailed the first in line for the short ride to Gilhooley’s.

Our driver was a chatty fellow named Lucky who entertained us with tidbits about his hometown of Boston. He stopped on the corner directly in front of Gilhooley’s, with its classic mahogany doors with glass panels displaying the name in bold black letters. “I’m here giving you the usual tourist claptrap, but my guess is that if you know to come to Gilhooley’s for the best beef and Guinness pie in all of Boston, not to mention the excitement of the tournament games played at their pool table most nights, well, you ain’t no strangers to Boston.”

“No, we certainly are not,” Seth said. I noticed he tacked on quite a nice tip to the cab fare. Nothing makes Seth feel more gratified than having someone acknowledge that he is “in the know” about whatever the issue might be.

* * *

As soon as we stepped inside, we were surrounded by the sound of chatter and laughter that nearly drowned out the click of a pool cue striking a ball. The smell of Guinness poured straight from the tap mixed with the pungent odor of beef and lamb wafting from the kitchen. Shirley, a pert blond waitress I had met before, gave me a nod and a smile as she placed steaming dishes in front of the patrons at a table for four.

“Mrs. Fletcher, it’s so good to see you again. I’ve been nudging Harry to invite you to give us a visit. It’s been too long.”

Right after that, the bartender came around from behind the bar. I noticed that Cookie’s gray hair had thinned a bit since the last time I’d been to Gilhooley’s. He was, as always, neat as a pin; his spotless white button-down shirt was tucked into his black pants, and his shoes were buffed to a high gloss.

I tried to introduce him to Seth, but Cookie was ahead of me. He reached out and shook Seth’s hand energetically. “Dr. Hazlitt, I’m so happy to finally meet you. Harry tells me that you’re a great friend of his and of Mrs. Fletcher.”

Seth raised an eyebrow to me at the mention that he and Harry could be buddy-buddy, but he politely replied how happy he was to meet Cookie.

Every one of the shiny red plastic stools that lined the bar was occupied, and there was a row of standees behind them. I guessed that we’d arrived during happy hour. The dining area seemed crowded as well.

“Seems like a busy night,” I said as I glanced at the crowd milling around by the pool table.

“Not to worry,” Cookie answered. “I reserved you a spot as far away from the pool table as I could.” He led us to a table close to the front door. “Right now there’s just a couple of regulars taking shots to warm up the table, but the real action is about to start. We got an exciting matchup tonight. I’m afraid it’s going to be noisy. Harry must be really excited to see you if he’s willing to give up watching out-of-towner Pugsy Johnson go up against Sticks Donohue, the undisputed champion of the pool tables in Southie.”

A young man standing next to the table gave us a smile and a wave.

“This is Marty Rossi; he’ll be your server. Marty’s deaf, but he is able to speak, and he reads lips really well. Trust me, he never gets an order wrong. But if you get confused, Marty carries a notepad and lots of pens,” Cookie said.

Seth surprised me by greeting Marty with hand motions that I assumed were American Sign Language. Marty’s smile broadened and he signed something to Seth in return.

Once we were settled in our seats, Cookie said he would leave us in Marty’s capable hands and went back to work the bar. Marty filled our water glasses, placed a notepad and pens on the table, then handed us menus.

Seth said, “Follow me, Jess. This is the sign for ‘thank you,’ ” and placed the fingers of one hand on his chin and moved his hand outward. I did the same.

“I’ll give you a minute to decide,” said Marty and stepped away. But I needed no time at all; I’d been longing for Gilhooley’s shepherd’s pie ever since Marshall Stryback had invited me to Boston.

“Seth, I had no idea you knew sign language. Where did you learn that skill?” I asked.

Seth chuckled. “I spend a lot of time in the children’s wing of Cabot Cove Hospital. The nursing staff there are really wonderful in any and every situation. Most of them learned American Sign Language when they were in nursing school; in fact, some actually took it as an elective in high school. So there’s always at least one nurse on every shift who can communicate with deaf patients. Of course, the hearing patients, being inquisitive as children generally are, wanted to know what the nurses were doing and if it was a secret code. The nurses decided to teach a few words and phrases of the ‘secret code’ to the hearing kids. Finally, they offered to share their knowledge with anyone who wanted to learn, doctors included.” Seth peered down at the menu. “Well, this Dublin coddle certainly looks a treat. Bacon and sausage in the same dish along with potato and onion. A man can’t go wrong with that hearty mix.”

I was about to suggest we wait for Harry before ordering when Cookie came back to the table, followed by a striking, fair-skinned young blond woman wearing a very becoming outfit consisting of a pale pink dress and a navy blue blazer.

“Mrs. Fletcher, Dr. Hazlitt, I want you to say hello to my daughter, Aileen. Mrs. Fletcher, you two have a lot in common. Aileen is a schoolteacher.” Cookie sounded so proud that I was surprised the buttons on his shirt didn’t pop right off.

We were still exchanging pleasantries when Harry McGraw came barreling through the front door and started apologizing before he was even halfway to our table.

“Jessica! Doc! I can’t believe I didn’t make it here before you. Traffic on I-93 was all jammed up by a multicar accident. Has Cookie been taking good care of you? Wow! He even brought his daughter to entertain you by telling you about the wild tricks those fourth graders are pulling. But she keeps them in line, don’t you, Aileen?” Harry put his arm around her and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Seriously, you should come around more often, like when you were little. All grown up, and suddenly you got other places to be, other people to see?”

Aileen laughed. “Actually, Harry, I have a date. Oh, and here he comes now.” We all turned our eyes toward the door and saw a tall, slim man with longish unruly dark hair and a bushy mustache to match, who was wearing a pinstriped suit. He waved to Aileen and walked toward us.

Cookie was in my line of vision, so I couldn’t help but see the expression on his face change as if a dark cloud had descended and taken away his sunshine.

Aileen noticed it as well, and she leaned in and whispered what sounded to me like “Now, Daddy…” Then she walked over, took the man’s hand, brought him to our table, and introduced him as Victor Cantrell.

Victor immediately reached for my hand. “Aileen told me her father was a friend of America’s favorite author, J. B. Fletcher, but I never imagined I would be fortunate enough to meet you. You can’t write your books fast enough to satisfy my craving for great mysteries.”

Then he turned to Seth and Harry, introducing himself to both of them as the man lucky enough to be spending the evening with Aileen.

Cookie continued to glower and abruptly said, “I have to get back to work.” He gave his daughter a quick kiss. “Aileen, Shirley is waving. Looks like a table is ready for you and your…friend.”

As soon as Cookie, Aileen, and Victor were out of earshot, Harry sat down and signaled Marty, who was serving coffee at the next table. “Let’s order. I’m starving and I have a lot to tell you.”

Marty stood next to Seth’s chair, pad and pen at the ready. He smiled and nodded at each of us when Seth ordered the Dublin coddle and I ordered the shepherd’s pie. Then he looked at Harry, and they said at the same time, “The usual, and remember to hold the tomato.”

“What is ‘the usual’?” I asked, being sure to, once again, turn my face so Marty could read my lips.

Marty laughed and pointed to Harry, who said, “Hamburger, well done, with onion and French fries.”

I raised my eyes heavenward. “Honestly, Harry, with all the delicious food on this menu, you opt for a burger?”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

Marty came back with our drinks—Chablis for me, and Guinness on tap for Seth and Harry—and said our food would be out soon. Harry picked up his glass and toasted us. “Here’s to a bright future. I got a feeling I’ll soon be rolling in dough.”

As we clinked our glasses, I noticed that Cookie was standing at the end of the bar aimlessly rubbing a bar towel in circles on the burnished wood. I followed his hard stare and realized he was glaring at Aileen and Victor. I had to wonder exactly what Cookie knew or suspected about Victor, who seemed perfectly charming to me, that would make a father so obviously worried about his daughter. I would have to remember to ask Harry when we were someplace other than Gilhooley’s.

Chapter Four

“So, I am sitting in my office little more than a week ago, trying to figure how I am going to pay this month’s rent, not to mention last month’s electric bill,” Harry began, “and I hear a knock at the door, and even though I’m not expecting anybody, I decide to open it, and these two lawyer types are standing there looking really uncomfortable. One of them, the fat one, actually swivels his head in a complete one-eighty, like he wants to be sure no one he knows sees him slumming with the likes of me.” Harry paused for us to take in the disrespect of it all.

“I would have been insulted but, you know, I got bills to pay, so I invite them to come in and have a seat, since I’m hoping there’s a payday for me in the near future. Turns out they are lawyers who’ve been hired on the down-low by the president of a major pharmaceutical company because he got himself into a jam.”

“Pharmaceutical company, ayuh, now that’s an interesting line of work,” said Seth. “New products every minute, and not always helpful products, in my opinion.” Seth shook his head in disapproval.

Harry said, “Well, yeah, I’ll get to that part, Doc…”

I think we were all startled when a man dressed in coveralls and a denim jacket with Mason’s Garage embroidered over the breast pocket gave Harry a light slap on the back of his head.

“Harry, kiddo, what the heck are you doin’ sittin’ way over here? You know all the action is up front. You grab a seat this far away, you might as well be sittin’ on a bench on the Common.”

Harry pushed his chair back, stood, turned, and grabbed the man’s arm all in one swift motion. “Sweeney, you jerk, I could have decked you. Can’t you see I’m with friends? Act like you’re civilized for once.”

“But, Harry, it’s Sticks Donohue defending Southie’s honor at the pool table! Don’t tell me you ain’t got money on Sticks.” Sweeney looked aghast at the thought.

“I’ll tell you what, Sweeney. If you promise to leave me alone for the rest of the night, you can go tell Cookie to give you two beers on my tab, but you have to promise not to bother me again while I’m with my friends here. Got it?”

“Done.” Sweeney put out a hand that appeared none too clean, but Harry didn’t hesitate to shake it.

By the time Harry sat down again, Marty was placing our entrées on the table. The mashed potatoes atop my shepherd’s pie were slightly browned, just the way I liked them. I could not wait to taste the beef, gravy, and vegetables within.

“Now, this is a meal,” Seth said as he inhaled the savory aroma of his Dublin coddle. “Look at the size of those sausages.”

While I dutifully admired the sausages, Marty had come back to place a basket overflowing with brown bread, biscuits, and Irish soda bread on the table.

At the same moment, the front door opened and, as if someone had given a command, the noise level in Gilhooley’s dropped by more than half. A short gray-haired man dressed in an expensive-looking black suit stood in the doorway. He was clearly waiting to be noticed, and it was only after several people waved or called, “Yo, Paddy, we’ve been waiting for you,” that he entered the restaurant and closed the door behind him.

Since most of the greetings came from along the bar and the folks gathered around the pool table, I was surprised to see the man—Paddy—walk over to Aileen’s table. I quickly scanned the bar until I found Cookie. He was standing stock-still and watching his daughter with rapt attention.

The newcomer signaled to Victor, who did not hesitate to get up and accompany him to a corner of the room for what was definitely intended to be a private conversation. Cookie turned toward me so quickly that I assumed he’d felt my eyes on him. But he looked right past me until he caught Marty’s attention. Cookie signed something and Marty gave a slight nod. Then he immediately moved a few feet until he was in a position to observe the two men speaking.

After a few minutes of what looked like a troubled conversation, the man in the expensive suit flapped his hand at Victor in a curt dismissal. Victor nodded and returned to his table, where Aileen, her face filled with anxiety, grabbed his arm and leaned in for a whispered tête-á-tête. In the meantime, the man called Paddy walked toward the pool table, where he was loudly welcomed by all. At the same time, Marty rushed to the bar for a hurried conversation with Cookie. Then he returned to our table to ask if we needed anything more.

As much as I hated to interrupt Harry and Seth, since it appeared the word “pharmaceutical” had given them something in common to discuss, my curiosity got the better of me, as it often does.

“Excuse me, Harry, do you know who that man is? The one who made an entrance like a rock star?”

“Sure. Everyone around here knows Paddy Doyle. He runs the gambling book for all of Southie. He must have quite a packet riding on tonight’s matchup since he showed up personally to watch the game. Now, as I was saying to Doc here…”

Harry returned to sharing his excitement about his newest case, and I meant to pay attention to the conversation, but my mind kept floating off—probably to the same place Cookie’s mind was going. I was wondering why Paddy Doyle pulled Aileen’s date aside for a private chat.

“Jessica, where are you? Have you heard a word I’ve said?” Harry was plainly disappointed that I was inattentive to his exciting news.

I apologized, saying that a travel day was always tiring, and I pretended I had heard at least part of what he had been saying. “The job does sound interesting.”

Convinced he had recaptured my attention, Harry said, “So, the head of this company, a guy named Ali Sulaiman, is trying to protect the information about a new drug his company is developing. Turns out somebody—he don’t know who—has some dirt on Sulaiman or the company and is extorting money by threatening to release the dirt and, get this: after Sulaiman made a substantial payment, the blackmailer came back with the claim that he has the scientific formula about this new drug and will release that unless his palm is greased again. Talk about a way to tank the company with their investors, not to mention this Sulaiman could be out on his rear. No company president has that as a goal. That I know for certain.”

“Harry, I don’t understand the secrecy. Surely the investors already know that the company is working on something new?” I asked. “New products generally mean lots of future sales. Isn’t that a selling point on the stock market?”

“It is,” Harry replied, “but only when the drug is ready to get its final approvals and is about to hit the drugstore shelves. Until then, any information leak can help competitors catch up, which would hurt the company.”

Seth said, “I’ve been wondering—you haven’t mentioned the name of the company. If it’s one of the pharma giants, well, I’ve always heard they have their own systems for protecting the products they have in development, and they pay a small fortune to root out potential spies among their employees.”

Harry tore a page from the pad Marty had left on the table and reached for one of the pens. He wrote something and passed the paper to Seth, who took one look and said, “They are certainly not one of the big pharmaceuticals, but they have a reputation for aggressively trying to move higher up the financial ladder. They made a big splash with a migraine medicine a couple of years ago, but I haven’t heard of anything since then. I suppose I could call a couple of colleagues. Get the latest gossip.”

Seth passed the paper to me and I read Cure All Pharmaceuticals, but it didn’t ring a bell.

While Harry and Seth were discussing the pros and cons of Seth asking around about Cure All, I once again noticed that Cookie was focused on Aileen and Victor. Although when I glanced at their table they looked perfectly happy to me, Cookie had such a scowl on his face that I had to once again wonder what was behind his obvious dislike of Victor and whether it had anything to do with Paddy Doyle.

When we’d finished eating our dinner, a smiling young lady removed our plates, and Marty presented us with a dessert menu. My shepherd’s pie had been so filling that I intended to pass, but when Seth ordered the Irish apple cake, well, that was something I couldn’t resist. Harry asked for an Irish coffee.

While we were enjoying our dessert and coffee, I was sure that I was not alone in noticing that the crowd around the pool table was getting louder and louder. I thought Harry would be the one to come up with the idea, but Seth surprised me by suggesting that we move over to the pool table and get a look at the game.

We settled our bill, and when Marty wished us a good night, Seth told him, “We’re definitely not leaving before we get a good look at what’s going on over there.” Seth pointed to the crowd around the pool table that was getting louder by the minute.

Marty nodded and said he was sorry he couldn’t join us. Then he smiled and said hungry people were waiting for their food.

While we began to elbow our way through the crowd, which, believe me, was no easy feat, Seth said, “I don’t know if I ever told you, but when I was in the army, I was the snooker champion of my barracks. I doubt that’s the cue sport they’re playing tonight.”

“Doc, here it is eight ball,” Harry said. “Boston is all about eight ball.”

We managed to reach a spot where we had a decent view of the entire pool table, and I could also see both players unless one of them had to stand at the only corner of the pool table that was blocked from my vision by the crowd.

“Sticks Donohue is our local guy. A real champ. He’s the one in the green shirt,” Harry told us, and then proceeded to push his way even closer to the table. I followed even though I could see that his entire focus was on the game, and he wouldn’t care if Seth and I came along or left him completely alone.

I noticed that Paddy Doyle, the man Harry described as the most important gambling bookie in all of South Boston, was standing a few feet away from me, and from the look on his face, I could tell he was even more intent on the game than Harry was.

I had to admit that as the game progressed, I found it quite exciting. There was a loud “ah” from the audience when Sticks Donohue missed what looked to me like a straight shot. Then the mounting tension quieted the crowd, until a roar went up as Pugsy Johnson cleared the table and was declared the winner.

Some of the crowd cheered politely, while a number of folks ambled over to the bar for refills. Harry grimaced and said, “Well, that’s two C-notes I’ll never see again.”

Even though I had long been aware of his gambling habits, I couldn’t help but chide him. “Oh, Harry, when are you going to learn not to gamble? It’s no wonder you always have money problems.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry, Jessica. A couple of big wins, and I’ll be right as rain.”

“Did you notice how your friend in the green shirt—Sticks?—how can I describe it? His energy seemed to flag all at once, like something just drained it right out of him. Pool certainly doesn’t seem strenuous, so I thought perhaps he had become dehydrated from playing all this time under those bright, hot lights.”

“Shows what little you know,” Harry said. “Just because those guys aren’t chasing a ball around a one-hundred-yard field, don’t think this game isn’t every bit as demanding. The mental stress of every shot is like bench-pressing three hundred pounds. Just ask the snooker champ here.” He clapped Seth on the back.

Seth wasn’t joining Team Harry. “Medically, I certainly don’t see the analogy. Anyway, how would you know? Have you ever bench-pressed as much as thirty pounds?”

I was thankful that Harry took it as a joke, and when he offered to buy us a night cap, Seth accepted. The crowd was starting to thin, and I thought it was past time to head back to the hotel for a good night’s sleep, but since Seth and Harry were being so agreeable, I said I could use a cup of tea. Besides, I realized that a few minutes at the bar would give me a chance to speak to Cookie again.

A small space opened at the bar. Seth and Harry both insisted I take the one available barstool while they stood right behind me. Cookie was in front of us in a flash and didn’t blink an eye when I asked for a cup of tea. It wasn’t the first time he’d served one to me.

When Seth asked for a Jägermeister on ice, Harry said, “I thought you’d join me in having another Guinness.”

“Harry, you really should try a Jägermeister,” Seth advised. “It has herbs and spices that help with digestion but still has enough alcohol to give it a kick.”

Harry nodded to Cookie. “Make that two.”

When Cookie stepped away to order my tea from the kitchen and to pour two Jägermeisters, I took a quick peek at the dining area to see if Aileen was still here, but her table was empty. Shirley, the waitress, was resetting it for the next guests. On the back of her Kelly green dress, a row of white ruffles swayed as she reached across the table to place the cutlery just so.

I glanced along the row of bar patrons, but Aileen wasn’t there either. I had hoped to be able to get to know her, perhaps have a short conversation so I could make some sense of the cause of the tension between her and Cookie concerning Victor Cantrell.

First Cookie served the Jägermeisters to Seth and Harry, so by the time he came back with my tea, they were deep in conversation, comparing it to other favorite after-dinner drinks. Seth favored brandy, while Harry thought a fine aged single malt scotch would do.

As he set the tea in front of me, I said casually, “Cookie, it was such a pleasant surprise to meet your daughter this evening. She is lovely. And you are right—as teachers we have a lot in common. I do hope I get a chance to have a longer conversation with Aileen before I go home.”

Cookie heaved a long sigh. “There was a time I could say, ‘Sure thing, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll set it up.’ But since she met this Victor guy, she don’t listen to anyone but him. We don’t even hang out on Saturday afternoons like we used to. Ever since she was in college, that was always our time. We’d walk the Common, take in a movie, sometimes we’d even play tourist, take a boat ride on the River Charles or wander through a museum. Then this Victor came along, and she’s always too busy to hang with her dad.”

“He is her boyfriend,” I said as gently as I could.

“She’s had plenty of boyfriends, but not one of them tried to rope her off like this one. I don’t know. I just feel like there’s something wrong about him. I wish I could figure out how to get him out of Aileen’s life. Anyway, I will see if I can set something up. You will probably enjoy each other’s company, being teachers and all.”

Before I could answer, a man two barstools down the row held up an empty glass. Cookie said, “Excuse me,” and went back to work while I mulled over everything he had said. Perhaps his problems with Aileen were more serious than I first suspected.

Chapter Five

When I entered the dining room the next morning, I expected that Seth, always an early bird, would be waiting for me. Since he was not, I sat at a table, ordered a pot of coffee for two, and was reading the breakfast menu, trying to decide between poached eggs and a vegetable omelet, when Seth came in waving some type of brochure.

“Good morning, Jess, wait until you see what I found in that wooden case in the lobby. You know, the one chock-full of tourist information?”

I nodded, which was enough to get him to continue. “Take a look. Did you know there’s a place called Boston Tea Party Ships and Museum right on Congress Street in the Fort Point Channel, barely a mile from this hotel?”

He sat down, handed me the pamphlet, and said, “The museum tells the story of that night in 1773, which was a premier event leading to the American Revolution. The museum even has the Robinson Half Chest on display. It’s one of the few surviving original tea chests that were dumped into Boston Harbor by the colonists.”

Not sure where this was leading, I said, “That does sound like an interesting place to visit.”

“Interesting? You haven’t heard the best part. They have two tea ships, the Eleanor and the Beaver, which sightseers can board and explore. The tour guides are dressed in period attire, and we can actually dump tea into the harbor just as the Sons of Liberty did.”

Seth was a decades-long reenactor, playing the role of Major Prentiss in our annual Battle of Cabot Cove celebration on Joshua Peabody Day, and he had a full Revolutionary War soldier’s uniform to prove it. I suspected that at this moment, he was sorry that his uniform wasn’t in his suitcase.

“Since we didn’t make plans for this morning, we can certainly spend a few hours reliving the Boston Tea Party,” I said. “As long as I am back in time to meet Marshall for high tea this afternoon, I’d love to foment a little rebellion.”

“Joshua Peabody would be proud.” Seth laughed.

* * *

We hailed a taxi in front of the hotel. According to his license identity card, our driver, a man with curly gray hair who was roughly our age, was named Mahmood, and when we told him our destination, he beamed. “Ah, my grandchildren live in New Jersey. When they come to spend some time in the summer with my wife and me, the first thing they want to do is throw those bales of fake tea into the harbor. I promise you will have the most fun of anyplace in Boston.”

This immediately drew Seth into an animated conversation about the original Boston Tea Party.

We were in the taxi only a short time before Mahmood said, “We are now on Dorchester Avenue. If you look to your right, you can see the bridge that crosses the canal. The museum floats in the water, but its entrance is fixed to that bridge, so there is no parking area.”

His eyes still firmly on the road, Mahmood reached over his shoulder and handed a card to Seth. “If you please, when you are ready to leave, you may call me and I will tell you an exact time I can be back to the bridge. I will slow to a brief stop, and you both jump in, and then we talk about the Boston Tea Party while I take you wherever else you may wish to go. Deal?”

Seth, happy to find someone who was as interested in Colonial history as he was, put the card in his pocket as he replied, “Deal.”

Mahmood was not teasing about the fact that there was no place for him to legally stop in front of the museum. There was nothing for us to do but rush out of his taxi so that it would not be blocking traffic for more than a minute. Seth stepped over a low metal barrier to reach the sidewalk, and I followed along, grateful that I was wearing sturdy walking shoes. The museum was a deep red building trimmed in black, with large gold letters identifying it as Boston Tea Party * Ships & Museum; a miniature building in the exact same colors and design stood in front of it, and its gold letters identified it as the museum ticket booth.

We saw, lodged in a stone pillar near the ticket booth, a plaque created by the City of Boston in 1973, celebrating the two-hundredth anniversary of the Boston Tea Party and designating the museum as the official Tea Party site. I stopped and took pictures for my grandnephew, Frank, who had a great interest in all things regarding the American Revolution.

Seth touched the plaque gently, and I thought that once again he was moved by the history of those who’d come before us. We stepped over to the ticket booth, and the clerk, as he handed us our tickets, said, “You’re in luck. The next guided tour starts in a few minutes. Please proceed down the walkway.”

A group of people were gathered, and I noticed that all of the children and some of the adults were wearing tricornered hats in true Colonial style. Within minutes of the tour starting, we were in the room called the Meeting House, and I felt my mind slipping back into 1773 as we watched live actors perform an interactive show that brought the events of that era to life.

Shortly afterward, as we explored the museum, we came across the Robinson Half Chest and learned it was actually one of only two existing tea chests to survive the original Boston Tea Party.

Seth was totally surprised. “Somehow the brochure led me to believe there might be a few more. I suppose we are lucky that there are even two still in existence after more than two hundred years.”

I had to agree.

Our guides led us outside, where two ships were docked, one on each side of the floating museum. As we walked closer, I couldn’t believe how small the ships were. How could something so undersized cross the ocean even once, never mind dozens of times? I couldn’t even imagine how brave the sailors must have been.

The name of the first ship we saw was the Beaver, a Nantucket whaler that, after delivering whale oil to London, had accepted a cargo of 112 chests of tea along with some lovely English furniture to transport back to Boston. Our guide explained that the shipowners knew that bringing tea from London to the colonies was a contentious issue; ever since Great Britain had levied extra taxes on tea as part of the Townshend Acts, the colonists had been outraged. But sailing back to Boston with no cargo would mean financial ruin, so the shipowners took the chance.

The other ship, docked on the far side of the museum, was a merchant vessel called the Eleanor whose owner had also decided to transport a cargo of tea on her return trip to Boston from England. However, when the two ships, along with another Nantucket whaler, the Dartmouth, arrived in Boston, citizens threatened violence if the cargo was unloaded. The shipowners were trapped, because by law they had only twenty days to unload before the ships would be seized and the cargo auctioned off to pay the customs duties. But if they left the harbor with any of their cargo, the British Army would confiscate the ships and the cargo, and destroy the companies financially. Either way, they would be ruined.

One of our guides looked at the school-aged children on our tour and said, “The colonists came up with their own solution, didn’t they? Does anyone remember what they did?”

Three children raised their hands, and the guide pointed to a young boy about ten years old, who took a step forward and said confidently, “The men dressed like Mohawks, climbed on the ships in the middle of the night, and dumped all the tea over the side of the ships, didn’t they?”

The lad blushed and smiled widely when everyone clapped in response to his answer.

For the grand finale, several actors in period costumes, who had been standing alongside our tour guide, moved toward the row of big square bales wrapped in substantial beige material and labeled with the heart-shaped logo of the East India Company. They hoisted them high in the air so we could see that all four sides of each bundle were tied together with extra-long heavy black cord that was connected to the deck rail. I supposed that was so the staff could retrieve them easily, after we rebels had the opportunity to toss them overboard.

Our guide asked the three children who had raised their hands earlier if they would help by showing us how the colonists dumped the tea in the harbor. The children’s excitement spilled over to all of us when one little girl shouted, “No taxation without representation!” as she pushed a bale of tea over the deck rail. We clapped and cheered for the children, and I went over to shake their hands. Another lady asked them to autograph postcards she had bought in the gift shop.

As the tour ended, Seth said, “On our way in, I noticed a tearoom behind the ticket booth. Why don’t we stop there for refreshments while I call Mahmood to drive us back to the hotel?”

I thought that was a terrific idea.

Abigail’s Tea Room offered light snacks and drinks. I opted for lemonade while Seth chose apple cider and a cheddar rosemary scone. A waitress dressed in period costume complete with a white mobcap trimmed with ruffles around her face took our order, after which Seth said, “Are you sure you won’t have a scone or a pastry of some sort? It’s been a long while since breakfast.”

“As delicious as everything smells, I have to meet Marshall Stryback for high tea”—I glanced at my wristwatch—“in not quite two hours. I need to go back to the hotel and change into something suitable. Perhaps you should call Mahmood and get an idea of when he can meet us.”

While Seth was on the phone, the waitress brought our order, and I asked for our bill and paid it so we could leave at a moment’s notice. Fifteen minutes later we were at the curb. Mahmood stopped directly in front of us, and we stepped over the metal barrier and slid into the rear seat of the taxi.

Traffic was so light that Seth and Mahmood could barely share all their favorite things about the museum before we pulled up in front of the hotel. When Seth insisted on paying our fare, I gladly acquiesced, and then I arranged for Mahmood to come back later to drive me to the McKim Building of the Central Library on Copley Square, where I was to meet Marshall Stryback.

We entered the hotel lobby, and as we headed to the elevators, Harry McGraw popped up out of nowhere—or, more likely, he was lying in wait for us, comfortably perched on a stool at the hotel bar.

“Jessica, Doc, where’ve you been? Lady at the desk said you left hours ago. I was just about to call Jessica on her cell when I saw you walk through the front door.” As usual, the top button of Harry’s shirt was open and his tie hung loosely around his neck. Still, I’d often seen him in suits that were far more wrinkled than the navy blue wool he was wearing.

Seth began to tell him about our adventures at the Boston Tea Party Museum, but Harry waved his hand impatiently right in front of Seth’s face.

“We got no time for history, Doc. We’re almost late for the future. I got us invites to the, ah, pharmaceutical place—you know the one I mean. We’re invited to talk to one of their major development guys, and if we don’t leave right now, we’re going to be late. That would be rude, right?” Harry had taken Seth’s arm and was turning him toward the very door we’d come through about three minutes ago.

Seth looked momentarily perplexed, and then his face cleared. “You mean what we were discussing last night? And now we’re invited to learn about their latest project?”

Harry tugged on Seth’s arm. “Sorry you can’t tag along, Jessica, but this time it’s me and Doc Hazlitt. We’ll fill you in later.”

I had very little patience for all this intrigue, so I was happy enough to tell Harry I had plans of my own.

“Great. Enjoy,” he said. “We got to run. I’m parked in the cab stand. Can’t afford another ticket.”

And off they went.

I checked at the desk for messages. And when Marshall hadn’t called to cancel or change our meeting time, I realized I would be able to do a quick run-through of my hotel exercise routine, take a shower, and change into an outfit suitable for high tea before meeting Mahmood for the short ride to Copley Square.

* * *

Mahmood was waiting when I exited the hotel, and when I told him my destination, he said, “Ah, a pretty lady dressed in a pretty red suit with a white silk blouse. Do I venture a guess that you are meeting a friend for tea in the Courtyard Tea Room?”

I laughed. “That would be a very good guess, indeed. I am meeting an old and dear friend. To tell you the truth, I am a writer and he is a librarian, so this seemed like the perfect location for us to meet.”

“I see. So, do you think he will buy your books for the library? Maybe if you pay for the tea and scones and whatnot, he will feel he should return your generosity,” Mahmood said.

“It doesn’t quite work that way,” I said. “If it did, there would be writers courting librarians in every diner and coffee shop in the land. I am fortunate that the Boston Library has shelved many of my books over the years. Today’s meeting is Marshall’s way of thanking me, because tomorrow I am going to make a presentation in the main library. I intend to speak about writing and how important research is to writers of fiction and nonfiction alike, which is why libraries are invaluable to a writer’s process.”

“Ah, I get it. He buys you tea and you drum up business for the library.” Mahmood nodded quickly, then added, “I know something that I believe you may wish to know.”

He pulled the taxi over to the curb in front of the library and pointed across the street. “Has anyone told you of Bromer Booksellers and Gallery? They have rare books, very old books, books signed by the author. It is an amazing place that a writer like you should not miss a chance to visit. Perhaps after tea with the librarian, you might walk across the street and take a look around Bromer’s.”

As I pressed my cash into his hand, I said if I had the time, I would certainly consider it.

Mahmood made me laugh when he said, “Oh, missus, you have the time. I am working until seven o’clock. Take all the time you need.”

He was still chuckling when I got out of the taxi, carefully closing the door behind me.

The tearoom had high, wide windows that allowed the sun to add its shine to the light provided by an extremely grand and very large chandelier in the center of the vaulted ceiling. A stylishly dressed hostess greeted me at the door, and when I told her I was meeting Mr. Stryback, she smiled cordially. “Of course, you must be Mrs. Fletcher. I should have recognized you from the author photos on the back covers of your books. My husband and I are big fans. I just loved The Corpse That Wasn’t There, while my husband’s favorite of your books is Stone Cold Dead on Wall Street. Of course, he does work in the securities industry, so I guess that would tilt his interest toward any Wall Street book.”

As she and I approached his table, Marshall stood and walked toward me with both arms outstretched. I hadn’t seen him in several years, and I noticed that he’d lost some weight and grown a mustache. As always, he was wearing a bow tie, this one of green and gray stripes, which blended nicely with his white shirt and dark green jacket and gray pants.

The hostess placed a menu in front of my seat and withdrew silently.

Marshall took both my hands and said, “Let me look at you. Jessica, you never age. You are as lovely and youthful as you were when last we were together. When was that? Here, please sit.” He held out my chair. “As I recall, we were at the New York Public Library fundraising gala. Was that three—no, I think it was probably four years ago?”

As I sat, he slid the chair under me. “There. Are you comfortable, my dear?”

I assured him that I was, and once he sat down, I took the opportunity to look at our surroundings. The décor of the Courtyard Tea Room was quite elegant, with solid wood cabinets and bookcases scattered about the room. Starched white linen tablecloths and napkins covered every table, while fresh flowers adorned each place setting. I could picture the society matrons of a hundred years ago having afternoon tea in this very room.

“What a lovely tearoom. It was so kind of you to invite me.” I always like to take care of the pleasantries first, which allows the conversation to move to the business at hand more smoothly once the niceties are finished. I suspected Marshall had a request regarding my talk, maybe something he wanted me to include or exclude, and I would just as soon discuss it and put it behind us so we could enjoy our tea.

But if that was so, he was not ready to approach the subject. “The tea menu has some marvelous choices, unless of course you would prefer wine,” he said.

“Not at all.” I viewed the menu and told him I thought the white peony tea looked tempting.

“I was considering the blue flower Earl Grey. Perhaps a pot of each will do. Please scan the food menu. They’re particular about allergies here, so if anything might cause you a problem…”

“No, I am fortunate in that area. My, look at this array of sandwiches. There is even a chilled Maine lobster on a brioche. That feels like a welcome home for a Maine girl like me.”

“I am partial to the roasted sirloin myself, but with so much to choose from, I suspect we will each be sampling any number of savories and sweets.”

A waiter took our tea order and returned momentarily with two pale gray glazed terra-cotta teapots. One had a white peony design and the other a blue flower.

“What a clever way of identifying which tea each pot holds,” Marshall said. “The lady will have the white tea and I will enjoy the Earl Grey.”

A second waiter appeared with a three-tiered silver tray, each tier laden with delicious-looking food. He set it in the exact center of our table, and after ensuring that we wanted nothing else, the waitstaff withdrew.

“Jessica, please, what is your pleasure?” Marshall asked. “I’m always tempted to start at the bottom tier; desserts are my weakness. But I think I’ll forgo dessert for now and start at the top with a sultana scone. Would you care for one?”

I decided to avoid the scone layer and instead chose a smoked salmon mousse sandwich from the second tier. I’d barely taken my first bite when Marshall introduced the reason he’d invited me here.

“Jessica, I chose high tea for our private get-together because I did want you to see how charming a venue this tearoom is. The library will be sponsoring a cocktail party here for only our most generous supporters, and the board of trustees has decided it would increase the attraction if we invited three or four of our more popular celebrity authors, those who would most likely attract donors to attend. You, my dear, were the first author whose name was mentioned.”

I recoiled instantly. “Marshall, I hardly consider myself to be a celebrity. I am a working mystery writer, like so many others in my field.”

“Jessica, that is far from true. Although if it helps you reach a decision, I can promise you that the word ‘celebrity’ will not appear on the invitations, nor on any of the promotional material. For the sake of the library, please say you will consider it.”

I squirmed internally, as I always found invitations to help support a library difficult to decline. Finally I sighed. “When is the event?”

“We don’t have an exact date as yet. But we are hoping for early summer, right before our donors head to their beach houses in Martha’s Vineyard or Cape Cod.” Marshall’s expression was so hopeful that I couldn’t refuse.

“Well, provided your date doesn’t conflict with my deadline, I will certainly do my best to accommodate a library system that has been so good to me. Now, shall we move on to enjoying our food?” I hoped that the fundraiser wouldn’t interfere with my writing schedule; I hated turning a book in late.

I had absolutely no thought that I would have much more serious difficulties to contend with in the immediate future.

Chapter Six

Our conversation moved on to standard gossip about the book industry in general and libraries in particular, and our time together ended pleasantly. Marshall offered to call me a cab but I declined.

“I have it on good authority that I simply cannot leave Boston without going to Bromer Booksellers, which I understand is across the street. Perhaps you would be kind enough to point me in the right direction.”

“I can do far better than that.” Marshall took my arm, and we left the tearoom and strolled through Copley Square and across Boylston Street.

Marshall walked me to the entrance of Bromer and said, “I wish I could spend time wandering through the shop with you. It is a truly amazing place for book lovers such as ourselves. Regrettably, I have to prepare for a meeting of the trustees this evening. And you cannot imagine how prickly they can get if they have even a whiff that something is not in order.”

He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and said he would see me at my presentation the next day. “And thank you, Jessica, for giving me permission to tell the trustees that you’ve agreed to be a featured guest—notice I didn’t say ‘celebrity’—at our fundraiser. They will be thrilled. Your very presence is sure to attract donors to the soiree.”

* * *

Both Mahmood and Marshall were correct. The bookstore was far more fascinating than I could have imagined. Besides displays of dozens of antique books, all safely encased in glass cabinets, they stocked exquisite miniature books that I was sure collectors came from far and wide to purchase. Lovely modern artwork by local artists adorned the walls, along with discreet price tags.

I browsed the glass cases for a while, and eventually I stopped to look at a signed first edition of one of my favorite books, Death Comes for the Archbishop by the incomparable Willa Cather, which was published in 1927. A middle-aged woman with eyeglasses hanging from a chain around her neck approached to ask if I required assistance. She very formally introduced herself as Ms. Crane and said she was available to assist me, but I should feel comfortable browsing for as long as I needed.

“We here at Bromer recognize that decisions about the extraordinary items we carry cannot be made lightly or in haste.” She smiled and took a step back as if she had completed her task and the rest was up to me.

“Actually, I was wondering if you had any signed first editions by the late Marjorie Ainsworth,” I said. “I was privileged to have known her, and I do have signed copies of many of her earlier works, but then…”

“Yes, Ms. Ainsworth’s passing was most untimely, and the circumstances were certainly unfortunate.” She nodded and then tugged on the neck chain to raise her glasses to her eyes.

“Let’s look over here and see if we can find something you will enjoy adding to your collection,” she said as she led me to a glass case that had three first editions signed by Marjorie. I already owned two of them, but Marjorie had been brutally murdered shortly after The Man in King’s Cross Station was released, so I never got the chance to have her sign a copy for me. Ms. Crane picked up a white linen cloth from a handlebar attached to the side of the cabinet. After she unlocked the display case and lifted the glass top, she prudently wiped her hands on the linen cloth, and when she was done, she held it out to me. I cautiously followed her example; then she lifted the book from the pillow on which it had been resting and placed it in my hands. I immediately opened to the title page, and there was the signature I knew so well. I gently touched the finely curled capital M that was characteristic of Marjorie’s signature, and I could feel tears brimming in my eyes.

Without even inquiring as to the price, I said, “I’ll take it.”

While I watched Ms. Crane wrap the book with great care, I took out my phone and called Mahmood, who was delighted to hear that I had visited Bromer.

“I am so glad you had the opportunity to spend time there. Only two minutes ago, I dropped a couple of gentlemen at a restaurant on Beacon Street, so I am quite nearby. I will see you in, say, ten minutes?”

I paid for the book and thanked Ms. Crane for her assistance. I was somewhat surprised at how emotional I was and couldn’t help but hug the package as I walked outside to wait for Mahmood, who pulled up directly in front of me shortly after I had reached the curb.

After determining that I wanted to return to the Revere Hotel, Mahmood said, “I see you found something worth buying at the bookstore. I am pleased for you.”

While I told him about Marjorie Ainsworth and how much I missed her, I was careful to wipe the occasional tear from my cheek. I was awash with so many memories of her, both as a brilliant mentor and a caring friend.

Mahmood asked the occasional question and commented several times on how lucky I was, how wonderful it must have been for me to have Marjorie in my life. I continued to share reminiscences until, eventually, I realized we’d reached my destination and we had been parked in front of the hotel talking for some time.

I thanked Mahmood for his kindness in listening so politely, and scheduled him to drive me to the main branch of the library the next afternoon.

After I checked for messages at the front desk, and was grateful there were none, I went to my room and changed into what I considered my comfy writing and editing clothes, jeans and a plaid man-tailored shirt. Then I took my notes for tomorrow’s presentation and sat on the terrace to review my plans. I was in the middle of deciding whether to insert the history of the interlibrary loan code, which had been around since the early 1900s, or to merely explain how it operated and the advantages it presented to today’s readers and researchers, when there was a loud knock on the door to my room.

When I opened the door, Seth and Harry burst into the room, laughing like a couple of teenagers who’d just pulled a fantastic prank and couldn’t wait to brag about it.

Harry put his arm around Seth and said, “Jessica, you should have seen Doc Hazlitt in action. We met with Arnold Walden, PhD, the head of the biochemical division of Cure All Pharmaceuticals, and boy, I tell you, Doc Hazlitt was on his toes. He asked really sharp, medical-type questions. He made me look like a PI supported by a professional staff, ready for any investigation.”

Seth said, “Harry introduced me as his ‘independent medical consultant.’ Now I have a new title for my résumé.”

The two of them found that to be uproariously funny, and they laughed like the adolescent buddies they had obviously become in the past few hours.

“Why don’t you both have a seat and tell me all about it?” I said. “Start from the beginning.” Their excitement definitely overshadowed my plan to work on tomorrow’s presentation.

Once they settled on the sofa and I sat in an armchair facing them, Harry explained that the threatening messages to Ali Sulaiman, the head of Cure All Pharmaceuticals, came via calls or texts from an unidentifiable burner phone.

“The first couple of contacts were vague phone calls. ‘You won’t get away with it, Sulaiman,’ and then a disconnect. That kind of stuff. But then the texts began, and they became more and more specific,” Harry said.

“Specific in what way?” I asked.

Harry turned to Seth. “Doc, why don’t you tell Jessica about the trials? That will explain a lot.”

“Arnold Walden explained that his division has developed a drug they believe may significantly slow down the progression of several types of dementia. For identification purposes, they call it Objective 85. The drug moved into its first round of human trials the same week that Sulaiman received the first phone call.”

Harry jumped back in. “He didn’t make the connection to Objective 85. He thought it was some crank or former employee. But when the texts began arriving, they spelled it out. One said, ‘Objective 85 will be your ruin.’ Another said, ‘Objective 85 is a farce.’ ”

“So Mr. Sulaiman hired you to find out who was contacting him and what they knew or suspected that could damage the company’s image. Is that correct?” I asked. “And you thought it would work to your advantage to have a medical doctor along when interviewing the person who is the most knowledgeable source about Objective 85, both the drug and the trials.”

“Exactly.” Harry nodded. “And it worked even better than I expected. Walden took an instant liking to Doc Hazlitt and was very open about what the company had been doing for the past several years.”

Seth picked up the story. “At the beginning of the Objective 85 study, Walden’s team had identified a set of indicators—you might call them technical markers—that they felt the drug should meet before moving to human trials. To their surprise, during the first few months of the trials he had planned, only two of the indicators did not meet the standards he had set, and even they came extremely close. During the early years of a study, it is not uncommon for a quarter or even a third of the indicators to be withdrawn and replaced. So they decided to move to human trials earlier than they had originally planned.”

“Time is money even in the world of medicine,” said Harry.

That I understood, but I had to ask about something I didn’t understand. “Was Mr. Sulaiman able to explain how someone with a burner phone had what I assume to be the private cell phone number of the president of the company?”

“I did ask about that,” Harry replied. “Sulaiman said that outside the company, only family members and a very few close friends have his direct number. Inside the company, his personal secretary and the members of his leadership team all have it in case they urgently need to reach him. But he insisted that they were all extremely trustworthy. He said, ‘If I couldn’t trust them, they wouldn’t have their positions here at Cure All.’ ”

I wasn’t so sure about that. I’d seen it happen more than once. Without warning, a good friend suddenly turns out to be an extremely bad enemy. I had another question. “When you first told us about getting hired for this job, you mentioned extortion. I haven’t heard anything that sounds like extortion. Have there been messages asking for a payout?”

“Not directly. Sulaiman feels certain it’s coming. Now that the company has a select group of patients taking the medicine and being monitored regularly, it is impossible to keep this sort of news a secret, at least within the medical community,” Harry said.

“Not to mention the investment community,” Seth added. “The minute that news of a trial for an innovative medicine starts to be whispered around the medical community, their golf partners and bridge partners, not to mention family members who work in finance, are tuned right in to all the latest news. Nothing is a secret, no matter how hard the company tries to keep it so.”

Harry’s cell phone rang. He stood and took it from his pocket. As soon as he looked at the caller’s name, he nodded toward my bedroom door, and I waved him along.

Seth and I were deciding whether to call for room service or go out for an early dinner when Harry came back with his phone still in his hand. “I hate to break up the party, but Sulaiman finally got the call. The voice said, ‘It’s a good thing you have so much money, because you’ll have to part with quite a lot of it to keep me quiet. I’ll be in touch.’ Then he, or she, hung up, leaving Sulaiman a total wreck. I better run over there and calm him down.”

“Are you saying he couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman calling? That doesn’t sound right,” Seth said.

“You sound like a man who’s behind the times, Doc. Welcome to the modern age. We have all sorts of electronic gadgets that can make you sound like anyone from Snow White to Darth Vader. I can’t blame the guy for being rattled. I’ll be in touch.” Harry gave us a good-bye wave and was out the door.

Seth looked at me. “As if the day wasn’t exciting enough, Harry will probably spend half the night looking for an unidentifiable voice calling from an unidentifiable phone.”

“And knowing Harry, he is likely to find both before too long,” I replied.

“I hope he does. He certainly gave me a day to remember, not to mention that after our conversation with Arnold Walden, I can’t wait to see Jason Lancaster and ask if he’s heard any gossip about Objective 85. He’ll be surprised that a ‘country doctor’ like me would have news about a cutting-edge dementia study.”

“Seth!” I said. “Do you honestly think it would be appropriate for you to discuss anything you learned today with anyone, even a doctor and close friend? Harry trusted you…”

“Exactly.” Seth harrumphed. “Of course Harry trusts my discretion. He’s known me for years. But don’t forget Arnold Walden was quite open about it, and he’s the caretaker of Objective 85.”

“Mr. Walden had every reason to trust you because you attended the meeting with Harry, who gave you the designation of consultant,” I said adamantly. Then I tried to lighten my tone. “You know, that new title on your résumé?”

“Ayuh, I suppose you have a point there. Arnold did mention more than once that Mr. Sulaiman had directed him to be—I believe the phrase he used was ‘candid and forthcoming’ when he met with us, but I am sure that my name was never actually mentioned since Sulaiman wouldn’t know me any more than I would know him if he walked in that door.” Seth tipped his head in the direction of the door to my suite, and as if on cue, there was a knock, which startled us both.

I hurried to open the door, and Mike the bellman handed me the brown-and-beige striped dress I was planning to wear for tomorrow’s library presentation.

“Here you go, Mrs. Fletcher, freshly pressed and ready to wear, but I have to warn you that according to the weather forecast on channel seven, we’re expecting rain to begin shortly and to continue for the next twenty-four hours. I hope you have a raincoat handy.”

I pressed a tip in his hand as I said, “Fortunately, I have both a raincoat and an umbrella, and I will be sure to bring them with me whenever I leave the hotel this evening or tomorrow.”

“Smart move.” Mike touched two fingers to the brim of his cap. “Have a good night.”

As I closed the door, Seth said, “I suppose the pending rain makes it far more practical for us to order room service or find a nice table in the hotel dining room. What say you?”

“I say let’s go downstairs, take a walk around the lobby, get familiar with our surroundings, and have a nice, leisurely dinner. I am in the mood for a New England fish fry.” I slid my room key into my purse.

As we walked to the elevator, I couldn’t help thinking that poor Harry was off chasing down clues while Seth and I would be having a peaceful dinner. How was I to know it would be the last relaxing dinner we would have for quite some time?

Chapter Seven

Mike had been right on target when he told me what to expect from the weather. I awoke the next morning to the sound of raindrops tapping against the windows. Although it wasn’t unexpected, I was mildly disappointed because I had read the “About the Revere Hotel” brochure and learned that there were bicycles available to hotel guests. Well, this certainly was not going to be the morning for a bike ride around Boston Common, so I put on my sweatsuit and headed for the hotel gym. If I couldn’t ride outdoors, I could certainly pedal an Exercycle.

There were only two people in the gym, a young man running on the treadmill and a woman, probably a few years younger than me, lifting hand weights and carefully observing her form in the floor-to-ceiling mirror that lined the far wall. I was delighted to have the exercise bike section all to myself.

I set the timer for forty-five minutes and started pumping. My legs were soon keeping time to the music that wafted through the sound system. Sometimes I sang, keeping my voice just above a whisper; more often I hummed along. When the timer buzzed, I climbed off the bike and spent a few minutes stretching; then I checked the wall clock and saw that I had more than enough time to shower and dress before I was scheduled to meet Seth for breakfast. I reached for the ceiling and the floor in a dozen final stretches and headed back to my room.

I had come out of the shower and was drying my hair when my cell phone indicated I was receiving a text. It was from Harry McGraw.

Sorry, Jess, will miss your library talk. Duty calls. I know you will knock ’em dead.

I wasn’t surprised. I could tell Harry had been obsessed with the Cure All Pharmaceuticals case since before Seth and I had arrived in Boston, and that wasn’t going to change until Harry solved the case and put everything to rights. I suspected he would spend today following up on whatever information he’d gotten from Mr. Sulaiman last night.

I was beginning to feel rather famished, so I hurried to finish dressing and went to meet Seth. When I stepped out of the elevator, I immediately saw him comfortably seated on a couch with his nose buried in the Boston Globe.

I said, “Good morning,” to catch his attention.

“There you are.” Seth closed the newspaper and dropped it on the end table beside him. And from the twinkle in his eye, I knew I was about to be the subject of his often peculiar brand of humor.

“I hate to be the one to tell you, but I searched the Globe from front to back, from the metro section to the sports section, and I didn’t find a single word about preeminent mystery writer J. B. Fletcher lecturing at the iconic Boston Central Library on Copley Square.” He ended with a grin he couldn’t contain. “I hope I won’t be all alone sitting in the audience.”

I picked up the newspaper, fluttered it back and forth in front of him, and said, “Why would there be any mention of the event in the local press? I am on an undercover mission for my publisher. The company wants to see how many people come out when the event’s details are spread only by word of mouth.”

Seth chortled. “Woman, you are quick with a comeback, I’ll give you that. Now let’s get some breakfast. It’s late enough that the dining room should be reasonably empty.”

And so it was. We were seated immediately and offered coffee.

By mutual agreement, we eliminated the possibility of pancakes since none could compare with Mara’s. I was deciding which vegetables to have in an omelet—spinach, peppers, or both—when Seth said, “Will you lookie here. How is it that in a hotel named for Paul Revere, they offer eggs Benedict on the menu? Has no one told the kitchen staff about the most famous traitor of the American Revolution, Benedict Arnold?”

I shook my head. “Eggs Benedict was not named for the traitor. In fact, as a breakfast, the dish came into fashion long after Benedict Arnold was dead and buried.”

“And how is it you are so certain of this?” Seth challenged.

“Research, how else?”

“For one of your books?” Seth, who prided himself on reading my books multiple times, frowned. “I don’t recall eggs Benedict in any of the books I’ve read.”

“No, the research I did was for one of the Battle of Cabot Cove reenactments. Lavinia Wahl was in charge of the pre-reenactment breakfast, and when the menu was being discussed, one of the volunteer chefs mentioned eggs Benedict, and that started a battle that could have easily rivaled the reenactment itself. To calm everyone down, I promised to find out the source of the name eggs Benedict and report back to Lavinia so she could make the final decision.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense. Who are the eggs with hollandaise sauce named for, if not Benedict Arnold?”

Now that he was so riled up, I knew Seth was not going to be happy with my answer.

“Actually, no one is sure exactly where the name came from, other than that the combination of eggs and hollandaise sauce first became popular in New York City in the late eighteen hundreds.”

“You’re telling me the answer is that there is no answer? Of all the confounded—”

I interrupted before he got even more upset.

“As it turns out, there are two versions of the origins of eggs Benedict, but as I said, both stories are set in New York. The dish was named either for a Mrs. Benedict who frequented Delmonico’s, a famous and fashionable restaurant of the time, or for a Mr. Benedict who requested eggs with bacon and hollandaise sauce at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. No one knows for sure.”

Seth digested that for a moment and then smiled. “Well, as long as we’re sure that Benedict Arnold had nothing to do with the recipe, I believe I will have the eggs Benedict for breakfast. It says on the menu that the hollandaise is made with brown butter; that should add a tang. And what looks good to you, Jessica?”

“I’ll have a spinach omelet—that is always one of my favorites.”

As soon as we set our menus on the table, a member of the waitstaff came to take our order.

For the remainder of breakfast, our conversation was much less contentious. Seth told me that he’d received a call from Gregory Leung at the Cabot Cove Hospital to let him know that one of his patients, a twelve-year-old boy, had been admitted overnight for an emergency appendectomy but was doing quite nicely this morning.

And when the rain picked up its pace and began pounding against the restaurant windows, Seth said he was glad we’d had our walk through the Public Garden and our visit to the Tea Party Museum when it was sunny and warm. “And today we’ll be inside the library for your talk.”

“Yes, thankfully we never even discussed having the presentation in the McKim Courtyard; its lush garden and gorgeous colonnades couldn’t protect us from so much as a droplet of rain.” I laughed. “And truthfully, the inside of the building is so beautifully designed and adorned by the art of many contributing artists that it is a museum as much as it is a library. Speaking of”—I looked at my watch—“Mahmood will be here quite soon. We best get ready to go.”

Seth graciously offered to sign for our breakfast, after which we went to our rooms to collect our raincoats and umbrellas. Then we stood just inside the main entrance until we saw Mahmood’s cab pull up. As we stepped toward the door, the hotel doorman moved in front of us and opened an extra-wide umbrella. He escorted us to the taxi and wished us a pleasant day.

Thanks to the weather, traffic was slower than it had been the day before, but we got to the library with time to spare. After assuring Mahmood that we would give him plenty of notice before we were ready to leave, we made a dash for the library’s front door.

As soon as we got inside, Seth held the door open while I shook the umbrellas outside, so neither of us noticed a young lady, her hands folded primly in front of her, who was standing a few feet away from us in the arched marble lobby.

As we closed our umbrellas and turned, the woman smiled and came toward us, hand extended in greeting. “Mrs. Fletcher, my name is Doreen Castlebar. Mr. Stryback has asked me to show you to the room where your presentation will be held. The library is extremely large. It can be quite easy to get lost.”

I introduced Seth, and then Doreen led us up a flight of stairs that were guarded at the top by a marble lion on each side.

Seth said, “Look at these beauties. In New York City, the lions are outside the main library, but they guard a staircase just as these two do. I believe the New York lions are named Patience and Fortitude. Do these lions happen to have names?”

Doreen smiled. “Actually, they don’t, but they do have quite a story. Each of these lions represents a Massachusetts regiment that fought valiantly in the Civil War. The Second”—she pointed to one lion—“and the Twentieth.” She pointed to the other.

After a moment of respectful silence, Doreen continued. “You can see that, unlike the rest of the library where the marble is highly polished, the lions remain in their original rough, unpolished marble. When the library was built in 1895, those members of the regiments who were still living requested that the lions remain that way. I suppose they thought it would be a more accurate symbol of what the lions represented, which was the difficulties they faced during the war.”

Seth’s eyes opened wide and he grabbed my arm. “Jess, this reminds me of the story you told about Colonel Cass. His men disliked his statue so much they made the city buy a new one. Tough old men those veterans were.”

“Yes, they were,” I agreed, but as we started to follow Doreen down the hallway, I noticed something. “Doreen, how is it that although the lions’ bodies are original marble, their tails appear to be polished?”

Doreen walked over to the nearest lion and caressed its tail. “Oh, I forgot to mention that over all these many years visitors have been rubbing the lions’ tails for luck as they pass by, so the tails are polished even though the lions are not. I think, were they alive today, the veterans would not object.”

I had to agree.

As we walked along, Doreen gave us a brief tour of rooms and hallways, pointing out the marvelous artwork by John Singer Sargent and others—even one mural painted by the most famous muralist of the nineteenth century, French artist Pierre Puvis de Chavannes. These paintings adorned the walls and, in several places, the ceilings of library rooms. Lastly, we entered a chamber that had been set up with chairs for an audience and a podium for a speaker. Seth and I hung our wet raincoats on a portable coatrack that stood beside the entryway, and Doreen asked if I needed to freshen up.

When I said I was fine, she led me to the podium. There was a step stool placed discreetly behind it, which I did not need, so Doreen moved it to an out-of-the-way corner.

Then she had me test the microphone and make sure that the little light attached to the top of the podium was working properly in case I needed it to read any notes I might have brought along for reference.

On a shelf in the body of the podium, there was a covered pitcher of water and four or five paper cups stacked next to it. I thanked Doreen for her thoughtfulness and said the water would definitely come in handy.

Members of the audience began to arrive, and there was a lot of talking and laughing as people got out of their rain gear and looked around to decide which seats would suit them. As the chairs began to fill up, Seth said, “I guess I better go find a spot before there are none left. Looks to me like this J. B. Fletcher person draws a crowd. I would tell you to break a leg, but I think that’s reserved for theater folk. Is there something similar that can be said to a writer?”

“Well, Harry sent me a text telling me to knock ’em dead.”

Seth laughed. “I suppose that’ll do. Knock ’em—”

A stick-thin woman, her gray hair unraveling from an untidy bun, used the unwieldy tote bag she was carrying to create a wedge and pushed past Seth without so much as an “excuse me.” “Oh my,” she began to gush, “I can’t believe it’s you! J. B. Fletcher, my absolute favorite mystery author. Why, do you know I have read Good-bye, Charlie seven times? How you make a murder mystery so much fun, well, that is a mystery to me.”

She laughed at her little joke and then went on. “My name is Mary Lester, and whenever I’m depressed, I just pick up that book, and you have me chuckling and chortling all the way through. I hope you’ll be signing after your presentation. You can be sure I brought two copies of Good-bye, Charlie for you to sign. I need to have a spare.”

Realizing that Good-bye, Charlie’s mega fan was going to continue to monopolize me for as long as she possibly could, Seth surrendered, gave me a brief wave, and wandered off to find a seat. Fortunately for me, Marshall Stryback had entered the room and recognized my predicament. I watched him shake the occasional hand as he made his way toward me and my biggest fan.

He tapped Mary Lester on the shoulder and, with a broad smile, said in his most gracious tone, “If you will excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher and I are old and dear friends. Since she accepted my invitation to speak at our library today, I really must greet her and thank her privately before the event starts.”

When Mary turned to Marshall and gave him a cold blank stare, he gave up all pretense and said, “Really now, madam, you must hurry and find a seat. We are about to start.”

Disappointed, she turned away, but not before assuring me that she would be first in line for my book signing.

Marshall took me by the hand, and we moved toward the back wall, away from the audience.

“Jessica, once again, I cannot thank you enough for agreeing to do this. I don’t know if you noticed, but our maintenance crew has had to bring in more chairs. You have attracted a standing-room-only-sized crowd. Take a look.”

I hadn’t noticed, but when I looked out over the audience, I saw that every seat was taken, and there was a line of people along the back wall. I spotted Seth sitting about six rows back, and I was both surprised and delighted to see Cookie, from Gilhooley’s, standing along the far wall. When I caught his eye, he gave me a brief smile, which I returned.

Marshall whispered, “Shall we start?”

I nodded. Marshall’s introduction was embarrassingly lavish. He spoke of our lengthy friendship and gave me far too much praise, both as a mystery writer and as someone he deemed to be overly generous with my time when it came to supporting libraries.

Then, leading the applause that welcomed me, he stepped away from the podium, and I moved behind it.

Once the room was quiet, I thanked Marshall for his kind opening remarks and began to tell everyone what libraries have meant to me, first as a child, then as a teacher, and finally as a writer.

I began to explain the intensive research required to write a book and how helpful librarians have been in guiding me to find the correct information for every book I have written, be it a poison that would not alter the taste of food or the proper legal defense to save a wrongly accused person. And I concluded by discussing interlibrary loans, having decided the use of that program would be far more interesting to the audience than the history of how the loan code was developed.

As soon as I thanked everyone for their attention, a number of hands shot up in the air. The question-and-answer session was lively but went on longer than I expected. Finally, a woman in the back row started by complimenting my writing and ended by asking, since I was so talented, why I had waited until middle age to begin writing. She ended with “We could have so many more wonderful books if you had only started earlier!”

I was grateful when Marshall stepped in and said that we were out of time, but he was sure everyone in the room was appreciative of the wonderful books I had written. The audience clapped and began to gather their things.

Several people came to thank me and say how much they were looking forward to my next book. When I saw Mary Lester in the mix, I quickly pulled a pen from my purse and said, “Mary, here, let me sign those for you.”

I continued responding to thank-yous and questions while I signed Mary’s books and passed them back to her. She took them but clearly was not pleased to be part of a crowd. The group of booklovers around the podium eventually thinned out, and even Mary Lester was gone when I saw Cookie edging closer. “I’ve always respected the amount of time it must take you to write your great books,” he said, “but next time I read one, I’ll be sure to appreciate the research you do.”

“Oh, Cookie, I am honored that you took the time to be here today. Thank you so much for coming.”

In response, Cookie blurted out, “I need a favor.” Then he looked so uncomfortable I had to stop myself from giving him a consoling hug.

Chapter Eight

Ilooked around the nearly empty room and said, “Give me a moment.”

I spent a few minutes thanking Doreen for her gracious help, and then I thanked Marshall for hosting and declined his offer of a snack in the tearoom. I told Seth, who was waiting for me by the coatrack, that Cookie needed to talk to me for a few minutes and said I hoped he wouldn’t mind.

“Cookie is a nice guy,” Seth said. “I’ll just have a seat in the back and wait until you’re ready to leave. I hope he isn’t in trouble.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Jess, when people draw you aside because they need to talk, they’re often in trouble.” Seth smirked ever so slightly.

As I walked back to Cookie, I hoped Seth was wrong.

“So, here’s the thing, Mrs. Fletcher,” Cookie said. “The other night, you met my daughter Aileen and her boyfriend Victor. I’ve had a bad feeling about him ever since I met him. In my line of work, I’ve seen dozens of guys like him. He oozes charm and sophistication, but he’s too slick for a nice girl like my Aileen. I even asked Harry to investigate him, but he’s—”

“—wrapped up in his new case,” I finished. “I know.”

“Well, now I know it’s worse than I thought. The other night when Paddy Doyle came in, he made a beeline for Victor, and I knew that couldn’t be good, so I asked Marty—I swear, Marty don’t ever do this to customers, but he knows how worried I am about Aileen, so he did me a favor and read their lips. Seems like Victor is into Paddy for some heavy bucks, and Paddy ain’t what you’d call a patient guy. Marty couldn’t tell if Victor owes Paddy on his own, or is one of Paddy’s collectors and came up short. Either way, he’s in big trouble.”

“I’m sure Sticks Donohue would agree with you there,” I said.

“Oh, you caught that, huh?”

“Yes, I did. Mr. Doyle is not subtle in the least. But what I don’t understand is how you think I can help.”

“Well, here’s the thing. My wife died a few years ago, so me and Aileen have been very close. Sort of helped each other through it, you know? But when it comes to this Victor, well, I’ve done the best I can, but she seems so taken with him I can’t reach her. It’s like talking to a brick wall. Then I got to thinking, you’re a woman Aileen admires. She reads your books even quicker than I do. And you know Aileen’s a teacher and you used to be a teacher, so you have that in common. I was kinda hopin’ you could talk some sense into my daughter.”

As soon as I said, “Cookie, I write mysteries, not romance, so this is a little out of my league,” I watched his face fall so flat that I could have bitten my tongue.

He looked totally bereft, so I tried to give him some hope, even if I didn’t hold out much myself.

“As her father, of course you are worried, so yes, I will talk to Aileen, but I don’t have much optimism that any conversation she and I may have will change her mind. It is impossible to reason someone out of being in love,” I said as memories of my late husband, Frank, crept into my mind unbidden as they often did.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t know how to thank you. Aileen promised me she’d come to Gilhooley’s tonight so we could have some father-daughter time. Maybe you could drop in? She’s supposed to be there around seven o’clock.”

When I accepted, Cookie beamed as if he’d won the lottery. “That’s great, just great. I’ll see you there.”

He started to leave and then turned back and said, “Dinner’s on me.”

After Cookie left, Seth got up from his chair and said, “I was right again, wasn’t I? After I call Mahmood and ask him to pick us up, you can tell me how you’re planning to break up Aileen’s romance with the dapper young Victor.”

While I was deciding how to answer, Seth pulled his phone from his pocket and called Mahmood, who said he would be outside in twenty minutes.

We ambled slowly through the building, occasionally stopping to take a closer look at some of the artwork we’d passed by rather hurriedly with Doreen as our guide.

After a few minutes, Seth said, “Seriously, Jess, from what I overheard, Cookie is asking you to go on a fool’s mission.”

“Yes, but it’s just that…”

“Say no more. Cookie’s a friend. He’s got a problem and you want to try to help. I get it, I do, but unless I misheard, this is not a problem that is easily solved.”

“But I gave my word, so I have to try.” I pointed to the ceiling of a room as we passed by. “Isn’t that a lovely mural?”

Seth ignored the mural and said, “Well, it’s too bad you won’t be able to come with Harry and me to meet Jason Lancaster this evening. I think you would have enjoyed him. You two share many of the same qualities, including curiosity, stubbornness, and an inability to say no to a friend.”

Seth laughed, but I didn’t find that last line to be the least bit amusing.

* * *

I arrived at Gilhooley’s at a quarter to seven. I hoped to have a chance to remind Cookie that I was only a friend who happened to be there when Aileen arrived.

Cookie led me to a far end of the bar. “When Aileen comes to ‘hang out with Dad,’ as she calls it, she always sits here.” He pointed to the last barstool. “So if you sit next to her spot, that should make conversation easy. We’ve been doing this since she was legally of age to be at the bar.”

Cookie looked off in the distance as if rapt by a memory. “Talking to her was easier in those days.”

Then he shook his head as if dismissing the past and said, “What’ll you have, Mrs. Fletcher? A cup of tea or maybe a glass of wine? I just opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio that you might like.”

I decided having a glass of wine would make Aileen less suspicious, and then I chided myself. Why would she be wondering about my presence at all?

Cookie placed my wineglass on a coaster in front of me and went off to serve the other patrons sitting at the bar. I turned and watched a young man teaching a young woman how to “sink a perfect shot” at the pool table. I thought he might not want her to learn too quickly, as he seemed to enjoy standing beside her with one arm around her shoulders and his other hand guiding her as she moved the pool cue.

Cookie came by once or twice to ask if I needed anything, but by the third time, he was clearly upset. “Aileen is never late. I tried calling her, but my call went to voicemail. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Fletcher; since she met this guy, there’s no telling what she’ll do. Can I get you another glass of wine?”

“No, thank you, but perhaps a glass of water. Oh, look!”

Aileen had just walked through the front door. She was crying and wearing a raincoat that was far too large, possibly borrowed from her boyfriend. And why was she wearing it at all? The rain had stopped hours ago and the evening was warm and muggy.

Cookie and I watched her walk toward us and, under his breath, Cookie said, “Let’s hope the guy dumped her. Better a few tears now than more tears later.”

Then he walked around the bar and grabbed his daughter in a big, warm hug. I watched the tender scene. Cookie stepped back and gently stroked Aileen’s head. “It’ll be okay,” he murmured. “Whatever it is, Dad’s here. It’ll be okay.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her eyes, then walked her to the corner barstool and sat her down.

I thought perhaps it would be best if I left, but Cookie said, “And you know Mrs. Fletcher—you met her the other night. She’s a good friend if you need one of those, you know, woman-to-woman talks. Now let me get back behind the bar and bring you a nice cold Polar Orange Dry.”

He rushed around the edge of the bar and signaled the bartender working the other end of the bar with a head nod toward Aileen, and that man nodded back. Then Cookie slid open the silver door that must have covered a refrigerator of sorts, because he pulled out a bottle of orange soda covered with a bright blue label. He placed a glass filled with ice in front of Aileen and poured some of the orange drink into it.

Satisfied he had done what he could to comfort her, Cookie said, “Aileen, honey, you know you can tell me anything, right?”

She nodded and took a sip from the glass.

“Well, what is it, then? Why are you so upset?”

Aileen set the glass down and pushed it away as her tears began to flow once again. I could barely hear when she said, “Victor’s dead.”

Instinctively, I leaned in and put my arm around her. “Oh, how tragic. You poor child, what happened?”

“He wasn’t answering his phone, so on my way here, I stopped by his apartment to leave him a note, saying I’d see him later. And…and when I got there, I saw his body slumped backward over a hassock with a throw pillow resting on his chest. I thought he must have fallen.

“He wasn’t moving and I thought he was unconscious. I knelt down and tried to lift his head so I could put a pillow under it, but when I touched him, I got blood all over my hands! The back of his head and the floor beneath it were covered in blood! That’s when I realized he was dead! I started to cry, and when I looked at my hands covered in so much blood, I needed to get rid of it somehow. I sat back and instinctively wiped my hands on my skirt. I realized there was nothing I could do to help Victor, so I grabbed his raincoat from the closet to cover up the blood, and I ran out of the apartment, got into a cab, and came here as fast as I could.”

She gave way to the tears streaming down her face and began to sob. “I didn’t know what else to do,” she cried repeatedly.

Cookie came around the bar and began to comfort Aileen with soothing words. I knew exactly what she should have done, and I was puzzled as to why she hadn’t done so. Instead of addressing her directly, I spoke to her father.

“Cookie, Aileen needs to notify the police. In fact, that should have been done the minute she realized Victor was dead.” I took my cell phone from my purse. “Since Aileen is so upset, would you like to give me the address, and I will make the 911 call?”

At first Cookie nodded, but then he hesitated. “That’s kind of you, Mrs. Fletcher, but I have a better idea. Why don’t we call Lieutenant Starkey directly. If he’s around, I think it would be better to have someone we know respond to the…to Victor’s apartment. Strangers will start to pound Aileen with questions. She’s in bad enough shape as it is.”

I certainly couldn’t disagree with him on that. And we could be sure Lieutenant Starkey would treat Aileen gently. He and I had first met some years ago when he was the investigating detective after Harry’s business partner, Archie Miles, whom I had hired to help me with a research project, was senselessly murdered. The lieutenant was kind enough to credit me with coming across the vital clue that led to the successful arrest and conviction of the killer.

I supposed there was no harm in Cookie trying to find Lieutenant Starkey; to my mind, the important thing was that the police be notified as quickly as possible.

Cookie pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts list. Then he tapped the screen and put the phone to his ear.

“Hello, Lieutenant. Yeah, it’s me, Cookie. I got a problem.”

Cookie explained as best he could while trying to choose his words carefully, probably so as not to upset Aileen any further. At one point, Cookie leaned in and asked her for Victor’s apartment number. It took her a moment to say it coherently.

Finally, Cookie said, “Thanks, Lou, I owe you.”

Aileen picked up a bar napkin, dried her eyes, and then blew her nose. She looked from her father to me and back again. “What happens now?” she asked quietly.

Cookie stroked her hand and said softly, “Now we wait.”

He looked around the room and probably noticed, as I did, that the dinner crowd was thinning out. He waved to Shirley, the waitress, and when she came over, he said, “We got a situation here. My daughter had, uh, sort of an incident, and we’re waiting to hear back from Lieutenant Starkey. Do you think we could grab that table by the far wall of the dining room, and maybe you could keep the surrounding tables empty unless a mob suddenly comes wandering in for a burger or a shepherd’s pie?”

“Of course. I’ll take care of it. I can help cover Marty’s tables in case the bar gets busy and Ned”—she pointed to the other bartender—“needs Marty to give him a hand.”

Shirley gave Aileen a quick hug. “Honey, whatever is going on, don’t you worry. You have the entire Gilhooley’s team on your side.” Then she hurried back to the dining area, where a customer had his hand raised and was signaling for his check.

Cookie put his arm around Aileen and gently escorted her to the table while I followed along. As soon as we settled into our seats, Shirley brought us a pot of tea and a basket of Irish soda bread. I poured tea into Aileen’s cup and encouraged her to drink. She put a hand up, gesturing that she didn’t want any.

“Come on, sweetheart,” said Cookie, “it will do you good. Just try a little. Here, let me add some more milk the way your mother always drank hers. When you were little, you always enjoyed sharing a taste of Mam’s tea.”

Aileen gave an almost imperceptible nod and raised the cup to her lips. She may have sipped, but she put the cup back in its saucer so quickly that it was hard to tell.

Marty stopped by our table and asked if we needed anything else. I noticed that he kept his eyes on Aileen, and he briefly placed a hand of support on her shoulder before he moved on. I wondered if he had feelings for her.

I was prepared that it would be something of a long wait before we heard from Lieutenant Starkey. I bided my time by occasionally taking a sip of tea while I watched Cookie slather a slice of soda bread with butter and then try to get Aileen to take a bite. She would not be coaxed.

I was glad to see Seth and Harry come through the front door. They were talking and laughing, so I gathered they had had a pleasant evening with Seth’s friend Dr. Lancaster. I watched them scan the bar, and I had to smile at Seth’s quizzical look when he didn’t find me or Cookie there.

But, always the detective, Harry quickly surveyed the room, and when he saw us, he grabbed Seth’s arm and led him to our table. They pulled out chairs and sat down, Seth talking a mile a minute.

“Earlier today, I spoke to Jason Lancaster, and he was thrilled that Harry and I were here and would be at his program tomorrow. Afterward he has invited me and my friend—that’s Harry…” Seth trailed off. He probably realized he was talking to three very somber people, so he started again. “I’m sorry, I’m clearly missing something here. What don’t I know?”

I wasn’t surprised that Aileen remained silent, but when Cookie didn’t answer, I decided that it was up to me. “Aileen’s boyfriend, Victor, the gentleman we met the other evening, has died quite suddenly.”

Harry looked shocked and asked, “And the circumstances?”

“Unknown at this time,” I replied, “but Lieutenant Starkey is looking into it.”

I noticed that Seth had been staring at Aileen, who seemed dazed and completely out of touch with our conversation. After a while, he said casually, “Cookie, it might be a good idea for you and your daughter to retreat to a quiet spot, you know, maybe a back room somewhere, and I might as well tag along.”

Cookie looked as though he wasn’t sure what Seth was asking, but as he thought about it, he appeared to get the point of Seth’s suggestion. He stood up and took Aileen by the arm. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s go in the office for a while. It’s quieter, and I’ll ask Shirley to bring us some more tea.”

While Aileen didn’t exactly resist getting up, she also didn’t exactly cooperate with her father. Eventually, Cookie leaned in close to her ear and said, “Come along, we’ll have more privacy, and since it’s kind of warm in here, you can take off that coat. Maybe we can get a pair of pants from the locker room and you can take off that messy skirt as well.”

For the first time, I saw a flicker of response in Aileen’s face. She stood and took Cookie’s arm, and he led her to a door in the rear of the restaurant just beyond the pool table. Seth followed behind them.

As soon as the three of them were out of earshot, Harry said, “Okay, Jessica, I know there’s more to the story. Give it to me straight.”

I shrugged. “Actually, I know little more than you do. The part you haven’t been told is that Aileen discovered the body in Victor’s living room.”

“Ouch, that had to be tough for the kid. Was it an accident or…?”

“Harry, I really don’t know, which is why I suggested we call 911, but Cookie thought it best that he find Lieutenant Starkey and ask him to look into it.”

Just then, Marty came to our table, picked up the teapot, and said he would bring back some fresh tea.

When he asked if Harry would like something from the bar, Harry answered, “Yeah, I’d love a scotch, but for now, I’d better face Cookie sober, so I guess a seltzer on the rocks will do.”

Harry and I sat in silence until Marty brought the tea and the seltzer. Harry gave him a halfhearted thanks but never touched his glass.

At last, Cookie came back to the table. I asked how Aileen was doing, and he said, “Your doctor pal sure knows how to deal with people who’re in crisis. He’s soothing Aileen way more than I could, so I decided to leave them to it. But I wish we’d hear from Starkey. Aileen needs to have this all cleared up.”

Harry reached over and touched Cookie’s arm. “I am so sorry about this. You asked me to check the guy out, and I kept putting it off. I thought other things were more important. You’re my friend and I failed you. I’ll never forgive myself. And now look at this, we got a real mess.”

Cookie patted Harry’s hand. “I knew the guy was a creep, I just couldn’t convince Aileen. Maybe you couldn’t have either.”

The front door opened, and a tall, broad man with sepia skin and a closely trimmed mustache, dressed in a well-cut suit, filled the doorway. Detective Lieutenant Starkey’s eyes darted around the room. Then he strode to our table looking strong and confident, as he always did.

The fact that the lieutenant showed up in person, rather than telephoning Cookie, gave me an anxious feeling that the news he was bringing was not anything Cookie was hoping to hear.

Chapter Nine

Cookie jumped up so quickly that he nearly knocked over his chair, so I grabbed it to stop it from falling.

“What’s the word, Lou?” Cookie’s voice was filled with anxiety.

“I’m going to need to talk to your daughter. Where is she?” Starkey’s tone was so businesslike that it confirmed what I already suspected. Aileen was in trouble.

“She’s, ah, she’s in the back.” Cookie flapped his arm in the direction of the pool table. “But she’s resting right now. She had a tough time, what with finding the body and all.”

As if to give himself time to regroup, the lieutenant took a deep breath and smiled at me. “Mrs. Fletcher, how nice to have you back in Boston. I hope these two gentlemen are treating you well.”

“Boston is one of my favorite towns, and it is always a joy to be here, especially among old friends.” I indicated Harry and Cookie. “I am sorry to see you under these tragic circumstances. I do hope that someday our meeting will be strictly social.”

“Unfortunately, I’m afraid today is not that day.” Starkey turned back to Cookie and said, “Sternhagan has the motor running outside. Your daughter is going to have to come to the station with us. We have a lot of questions, and I sincerely hope she has answers.”

Cookie immediately stood up and moved forward until he was nearly toe-to-toe with the lieutenant. “Now, wait a minute there. You’ve no reason to talk to Aileen. She’s upset enough about finding a dead body without you bothering her.”

“Cookie, the man wasn’t just dead. He was murdered. Can’t you see how important it is that we talk to your daughter, if only for her own protection? Maybe she saw somebody or, worse, maybe somebody saw her and thinks she saw them. We won’t know until we speak to her.” Starkey was unyielding.

When Cookie began shaking his head, I stood up to intervene. “Lieutenant, I traveled to Boston with my friend Seth Hazlitt, who’s a medical doctor and came here for a conference. Naturally, when he saw how upset Aileen was he asked for a private space so he could assess her condition.”

Harry jumped in. “Jessica’s got a point. You don’t want the girl passing out while you’re grilling her in the precinct. Then you got to get an ambulance, fill out department forms, and all that fuss. Why bother when we got a doctor right here?”

Starkey held up a hand as more of a stop sign than a surrender. “Okay, let’s get this doctor out here and see what he says.”

“Perhaps it would be better if you spoke to him in a more private area. Cookie, might you bring Lieutenant Starkey to the office where Seth and Aileen are?” I considered this the most practical solution.

Cookie hesitated for about thirty seconds but then shrugged and said okay. He turned and began walking toward the back, with Starkey on his heels. Harry and I exchanged a look and followed right behind them.

Cookie moved past the pool table and through one of the red swinging doors with diamond-shaped glass windows, which led to an immaculate kitchen area. I noticed it had a map of Ireland on the wall.

Cookie made a left turn. We trailed along, and within a few feet, we were bunched in a hallway facing a wooden door. Cookie looked at Starkey and made a “be my guest” gesture with his arm. Clearly, he was not willing to disturb Seth and Aileen.

I said, “Perhaps I should…”

When both Cookie and the lieutenant stepped out of my way, I took that as permission.

I knocked gently. “Seth, it’s Jessica. Lieutenant Starkey from the Boston Police Department is here, and he would like to speak to Aileen.”

No one answered, but we heard footsteps, and then Seth opened the door, slipped out of the room, and closed the door firmly behind him. He reached out and he and Starkey shook hands. “I am Dr. Seth Hazlitt, and, regrettably, it is my professional opinion that Aileen Davis is in no condition to answer any questions at this time. Perhaps in a day or so…”

“Doctor, I appreciate your opinion, but Victor Cantrell was murdered in his apartment sometime in the past twenty-four hours. Even as we speak, our police department technicians, along with techs from the medical examiner’s office, are going over every inch of the apartment. It would be best if Ms. Davis speaks to us now so we can merge her statement with the facts that our staff is gathering.”

Cookie snarled, “You mean you want to check her story against whatever your guys come up with. I always counted you as my friend, Lou. I can’t believe this is how you treat my girl. You know as well as I do that she ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

If I hadn’t witnessed it, I wouldn’t have believed how patient Starkey was while he talked to Cookie. “Listen to me. I know you want to protect your daughter from any false allegations, and the best and safest way to do that is for us to follow every rule from the very beginning of this investigation. We have to go exactly by the book. That way, there will be no questions in the future about how this case was handled. Got it?”

Before Cookie could answer, the door behind Seth opened, and Aileen, wearing a pair of white cotton trousers that were much too large for her, and now carrying Victor’s raincoat and her bloodied skirt, came into the hallway. “Dad, it’s okay. I am ready to talk to the police. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Cookie put his arm around her. “Sweetheart, I know that. I just hate to see you go through all of this.” He looked at Starkey. “Can I come with?”

The lieutenant shook his head. “Sorry, that won’t work. But I have no problem with you meeting us at the station.”

Cookie walked as far as the front door with his arm around Aileen and gave her a kiss when Starkey said, “I’ll take her from here.” And the lieutenant walked Aileen out to the street, and presumably to the car in which Sergeant Sternhagan would drive them to the station house.

Her father hurried to the bar and told Marty and Ned that he had to leave. By now, the entire staff of Gilhooley’s knew there was a problem. Shirley ran over and gave Cookie a kiss on the cheek, and I heard her whisper, “It will all be okay.”

When Cookie pulled a set of keys from his pocket, Harry said, “Cookie, how many times have you called me a cab because you decided I was in no condition to drive myself home? Today the tables have turned. Let me be your cab.”

Cookie nodded sheepishly and dropped his keys back into his pocket. “When you’re right, you’re right.”

Harry looked at Seth and me. “I take it you two are coming along for the ride?”

Seth and I did not hesitate.

When we arrived at the gray brick building with huge white letters declaring it to be Boston Police Headquarters, Sergeant Sternhagan was waiting for us in the lobby.

He came directly to Cookie and said, “I am so sorry about all of this, but don’t worry. I’ll keep a close eye on Aileen for you, every step of the way.” He looked over his shoulder. “Just don’t let it be known around the bosses.”

Then he stepped back and said, louder than I thought was necessary, “Right this way, please. Lieutenant Starkey would like to see you in his office.”

When we got to Starkey’s office, it was as neat and tidy as I remembered it from my last visit. Every piece of furniture was polished and dust-free, and there was not a single piece of paper on his desk that wasn’t tucked neatly in a folder. The room perfectly matched the lieutenant’s personality.

Before Sternhagan had a chance to close the office door, Cookie became visibly agitated. His head swiveled around the room. “Where is Aileen? What have you done with her?”

“For heaven’s sake, Cookie, calm down. She’ll be here in a few minutes, but like I said, we are going by the book here. First things first, I sent her downstairs to be fingerprinted,” Starkey said.

“Fingerprinted! You’re treating my daughter like a common criminal? Are you going to take those face-front and side profile pictures too? What is going on here?”

The more enraged Cookie became, the quieter Lieutenant Starkey was. He spoke so softly that, although I was closest to him, even I could barely hear him.

Cookie stopped shouting and said, “Come again?”

Starkey said, “Calm down. I sent her to have her prints taken for elimination purposes. Our techs have already printed the apartment, and as the victim’s girlfriend, Aileen’s prints are bound to be nearly everywhere.”

Cookie let out a deep sigh. “Yeah, that makes perfect sense. Sorry I got a little crazy but…”

Harry took him by the arm and said, “Here, have a seat and let’s all talk this through.”

He led Cookie to a brown leather chair, and once Cookie was seated, Harry said to Starkey, “Come on, give us the truth. What do you know?”

Starkey shook his head. “I know absolutely nothing until I talk to Aileen, and that conversation will take place without any of you present.”

Cookie started to rise from the chair, but Harry pressed a hand firmly on his shoulder, and Cookie slumped back into his seat.

We sat in silence for a while, and then there was a knock on the door. Howard Sternhagan opened it and stepped outside for a minute. When he came back in, he said, “Interview room three.”

Cookie’s head snapped up, and he looked hopeful for a minute, but when the lieutenant gave a slight shake of his head, Cookie nodded in return.

“I’m going to speak to Aileen,” the lieutenant said. “You are all welcome to remain in my office, and Sergeant Sternhagan will stay with you. If you need anything, just let him know.”

He headed for the door, and as he reached for the knob, he turned to Seth. “Doctor, rest assured that if I see the slightest sign of any medical issue while I am talking to Aileen, I will send for you at once.”

I noticed that Starkey specifically avoided using the word “interrogate,” and by speaking to Seth, he was also assuring Cookie in a roundabout way that his daughter was in safe hands.

We sat in the lieutenant’s office for nearly two hours. At first Seth and I attempted to make small talk, but every topic seemed to make Cookie jumpier. Periodically, Harry would ask Howard Sternhagan why Starkey was taking so long, and each time he did, Cookie would tell us all the exact amount of time that had passed since Starkey left to speak to Aileen.

So when the door opened and Aileen walked into the office with Starkey right behind her, we were all grateful and relieved. Cookie jumped up and enveloped his daughter in a tight bear hug but still managed to look at his watch and tell Starkey that he couldn’t imagine what kind of questions he had to ask Aileen that took an hour and forty-seven minutes, and couldn’t it all have been covered in half that time?

To Starkey’s credit, he ignored the question and said Aileen was free to go.

We soon realized that five people would be a tight fit in Harry’s jalopy, so Seth and I offered to take a taxi to the hotel. But Cookie reminded Harry that he needed to go back to Gilhooley’s to pick up his car. Sergeant Sternhagan was kind enough to say that he had been off duty for the past half an hour and could easily drop Cookie and Aileen at Gilhooley’s on his way home.

When we said good night, I gave Aileen a hug, and she whispered a thank-you. Usually, I thought that Harry drove a little too fast and didn’t always follow the rules of the road, but this time I was just thankful to get to the hotel and the peacefulness of my room, where I could shower, get into my nightclothes, and read for a while before turning out the light.

I became frustrated when I couldn’t focus on my book, so I shut off the bedside lamp and tossed and turned, wondering what had really happened to Aileen’s boyfriend and how much more difficulty it would cause for Aileen and, by extension, for Cookie.

* * *

After a fitful night, I awoke and did my usual hotel exercises, adding a few extra stretches to help me de-stress, then showered, dressed for the day, and went down for breakfast.

I found Seth sitting in the lobby reading today’s edition of the Boston Globe.

“Good morning, Jess. Ready for breakfast?” he asked as he folded the newspaper and then pushed himself out of his chair.

“I certainly am.”

As soon as we were seated in the dining room and had ordered our breakfast—a cheese omelet with a side of sausage links for Seth and a yogurt parfait with blueberries and granola for me—Seth held his newspaper open and pointed to an article.

“Look at this, Jessica. There’s an article about Jason Lancaster’s presentation today right here on page five, and it’s above the fold.” Seth was as excited as a kitten with a new ball of yarn.

“If I heard you correctly, you’re saying Dr. Lancaster made the Boston Globe while I did not,” I teased, knowing that was not at all Seth’s intention.

“Of course not.” Seth huffed. “How could you even think such a thing?”

I laughed at his reaction. “Oh, Seth, couldn’t you tell I was teasing?”

Mollified, he said, “I hoped you were joking, but I wasn’t quite sure. Now, let me read you this paragraph.”

“Before you do, please tell me how you think Aileen will be feeling this morning.” I was far more interested in last night’s crisis than in today’s medical lecture.

“Ah, that’s hard to tell. She was as close to being in shock as anyone I have treated in quite some time. But having her father nearby was a huge help. Did you notice that every time he stepped in on her behalf with Lieutenant Starkey, Aileen became a tiny bit less agitated? Having someone in a patient’s corner is always helpful, and when murder is involved, I think it’s downright necessary.” Seth looked past me and ended with “We better hush for now. I think our food is coming.”

After our server placed our dishes in front of us, and a plate holding a stack of rye toast with sides of butter and jam between us, she said she would be back with coffee refills as needed. “Just signal if you need anything else.” And she headed to the next table, which a family of four had just occupied.

Seth folded his copy of the Globe and placed it on the vacant chair between us. Apparently, breakfast outranked the article he wanted to read to me, but Jason Lancaster was still top of mind for him.

“With all the commotion last night, I’m not sure if you heard me tell you that Jason Lancaster has invited Harry and me to join him for drinks after his program. He’s quite anxious to talk about Harry’s client,” Seth said as he slathered butter on a piece of toast.

“Are you sure that Harry would be willing to have that discussion? After all, as a private investigator, he is generally hired to keep information private,” I said with emphasis.

“On the contrary. Harry is anxious to hear what the rumors are in the medical community about the prospective drug. In a perfect world, the buzz flying around those who work in health services, not to mention their friends and families, could lead him directly to the person who’s causing all the problems for Mr. Sulaiman.”

“I confess I hadn’t looked at it quite that way. I suppose a conversation with Dr. Lancaster has the potential to do more good than harm,” I said, and hoping to change the subject, I asked, “How is your omelet?”

“Perfectly cooked and delicious. Be sure you have a piece of this toast. It’s so tasty, especially with butter. Oh, look here.” Seth moved his head to the right and peered over my shoulder. “Speak of the devil, here comes Harry McGraw.”

Harry pulled out the chair where Seth’s newspaper rested, picked the paper up, and placed it on a corner of the table, where it teetered precariously until Seth moved it to the other unoccupied chair.

“Good morning, folks. Jessica, I called your room. No answer. Then I tried your cell. Again, no answer. I figured you might be having breakfast, and here you two are. Mind if I have a piece of toast?” Harry removed a piece of rye toast from the plate and began smearing it with jam so carelessly that drops fell over the edge of the toast and onto the table.

“Harry, you know I do try to remember to mute my cell during meals. It may be inconvenient for callers, but I find it helpful for my digestion.”

Our server noticed Harry at once and came over with a fresh cup of coffee in one hand and a coffeepot in the other. When she asked if she could take his order, Harry told her that coffee would be just fine. Seth and I accepted her offer of refills, and she wasn’t even out of earshot when Harry said, “There’s no time to waste; I need your help, Jessica.”

My response was swift and firm. “Absolutely not, Harry. You are so tangled up in this medicine thing you can’t see the forest for the trees. The only person I am willing to help is Cookie’s daughter. And she should be your focus as well.”

Chapter Ten

“Jessica, give a guy a chance, would you?” Harry said. “Helping Aileen is exactly what I have in mind. You know Cookie and I go way back. I’ve known Aileen since she was a little kid. Why, I remember popping beers on Cookie’s front steps while he was teaching her to ride a two-wheeler! And all the graduation parties—every single time, Aileen got at least one award, sometimes two. I know she had nothing to do with whatever happened to this Victor.”

“On that we agree. So, tell me, what’s your plan?” I asked.

“Look, I know I fell down on the job, but before this Sulaiman thing dropped in my lap, I did gather a few notes about Aileen’s, er, problem. I thought you and me could go over them, and maybe you could succeed where I failed.”

Before I could comment, Harry hurried on. “For example, if there’s anyone who knows what the story was with Aileen and this guy, it would be her friend Mary Jo Carmody. They lived only a few blocks apart in Southie, so they met in kindergarten and grew up together. They’re still tight. The thing is, Mary Jo, who I also knew well as a kid, turned out to be a teacher just like Aileen…and you. So I was thinking you know how to talk to those people.”

“Those people? Who are those people? I don’t understand the problem, Harry. I’ve witnessed so many of your interviews, and you always come out on top.”

“That’s because most of the people I interview recognize that I’m a PI and asking questions is my job. But teachers…when I talk to them, I always feel like they’re just itching to correct my grammar. Oh, not you, I don’t mean you, but the rest of ’em. I always feel like I’m nine years old again and, well, I figure it would be better if you went to see Mary Jo and you did the talking. I could drive you.”

“Harry, do you even know how to find Aileen’s friend?” I asked.

“I have her contact information somewhere. Maybe in my office or, if we’re lucky, in my car. You know I always keep files in the trunk. I’ll look around and get it to you as soon as I find it. I promise,” Harry said.

With that, Mike, my favorite bellman, stepped up to our table and said, “Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher, I saw you come in here earlier and took a chance that you were still at breakfast. You have a telephone call. Margey at reception said the gentleman sounded so upset that she asked the concierge if anyone had seen you. I happened to be standing at the concierge station and here you are. Do you wish to take a call from someone named, uh, Cookie?”

I practically jumped from my chair. “Mike, as always, you are a gem. I definitely wish to take Cookie’s call. Where can I?”

Mike led me to a small alcove just outside the dining room. He picked up a receiver on one of the three telephones and hit a few numbers, then said, “Margey, please put Mrs. Fletcher’s call through to this line.”

I thought he would hand me the receiver, but Mike held on to it. After a moment he said, “Please hold for Mrs. Fletcher,” and handed me the phone. When I slipped a tip into his hand, he smiled and wished me a good day.

Cookie’s voice was raspy, and I wondered if he had been crying or if he and Aileen had had such a long conversation that he’d talked his voice away. “Mrs. Fletcher, I need a friend to talk things out with. I’m super worried about how this whole mess is going to play out for my Aileen. I don’t like that Starkey pulled her in last night. And I don’t think he’s done. We all seen how smart you were when Archie Miles was killed. Harry, Sternhagan, even Starkey, none of ’em could figure out who killed Archie, but you nailed it.”

He was referring to the murder of Harry’s business partner. “Now, Cookie, I would hardly say that I—”

“Please, Mrs. Fletcher, could we just sit down over a cup of tea and talk about what’s going on and how it could affect my Aileen?”

How could I refuse Cookie’s heartfelt plea? “Of course. Where are you now and where is Aileen?”

“I’m at home. Aileen and I were up half the night as we tried to work this out. No luck there. Anyway, she’s still asleep, so if you want, I can come to your hotel,” Cookie said.

“I appreciate your offer, but that won’t be necessary. Harry stopped by to, er, have breakfast with Seth and me. I am sure I can get him to drive me to your home. That way, you’ll be there when Aileen wakes up. He mentioned that you two have been friends for many years and he has visited you often.” Not that I didn’t trust Harry, but I knew he was prone to exaggerate to get what he wanted, and right now he wanted me to interview Mary Jo, the teacher.

“Oh, sure, he’ll get you right here. We’re on the first floor of a triple-decker on E Street in Southie. Been here since Aileen was born. Bought the building when she was ten.” Cookie was obviously proud of his home.

“Take down my cell number and text me your phone number. I’ll check with Harry, and if we’re not able to leave the hotel within a few minutes, I will let you know.” Then I rattled off my number.

“Mrs. Fletcher, you’re a real pal. There ain’t enough shepherd’s pie in Gilhooley’s kitchen to repay your kindness. I’ll text my number and see you soon!” For the first time since I’d arrived in Boston, Cookie sounded like his old self. I could only hope circumstances would let him stay that way.

I hurried back to the dining room and did not mind interrupting Harry and Seth one bit as they talked about the great evening they had planned with Jason Lancaster.

“Harry, if you are not too busy planning your social life with the medical community, I need a ride over to Southie. Cookie has invited me to have a cup of tea,” I said with just enough of a smile to let them know I realized my announcement had startled them.

“You need a ride to where exactly?” Harry asked.

“How did that happen?” Seth sounded confused, and then realization hit. “Ayuh, that was Cookie on the phone.”

“Yes, and he offered to come here so that we could have a friendly chat, but since Aileen is still asleep in Cookie’s house, I thought it was wisest for him to remain at home. I was sure you would be kind enough to drive me, Harry. And before we get into the car, perhaps you could search the trunk for whatever data you might have about Mary Jo Carmody.”

“Sure, will do. And since you seem to be determined to look into Victor’s death, after I drop you I’ll go look for Howard Sternhagan. It’s a lot easier to get information out of him than it is to get anything out of Starkey. Doc, I’d invite you along but…”

“I know, having me there will shut the sergeant’s mouth tightly, and that won’t help anyone, least of all Aileen. I’ll have another cup of coffee and then perhaps take a walk over to the Common. Jess, you be sure to call me if Aileen wakes up and looks to be in need of care. I have Mahmood’s number in my phone.”

“I certainly will. Harry, let’s go,” I said in my best schoolteacher voice. “I’d like to talk to Cookie privately before Aileen wakes up.”

I could swear Harry flinched ever so slightly as he answered, “Yes, ma’am.”

When we reached his car and I reminded him to search for his notes about Mary Jo Carmody, he popped the trunk, and I knew instantly that this quest was akin to a fool’s errand. The entire trunk was filled with cardboard boxes of every size overflowing with papers, some typed, some handwritten, most a standard eight-and-a-half by eleven inches but many merely torn scraps with faded penciled notes. There were also a great many file folders full of papers. None of the folders had any names on their tabs. In fact, a few were completely empty. Harry began tossing papers around and quickly began muttering that he could have sworn Mary Jo Carmody’s address and phone number were there someplace.

“Harry, Cookie is waiting. Why don’t we ride over to his house? If anyone can put me in touch with Mary Jo, it will be Cookie,” I said.

“Right you are.” We got in the car, and Harry started the engine. Immediately the radio began blasting a blues song I recognized but couldn’t quite name.

“Sorry about that, Jessica,” Harry said, and he lowered the volume to a whisper.

“Not a problem. It’s a familiar tune, I just can’t quite recall…”

“ ‘All I Could Do Was Cry,’ ” Harry said.

“Of course! Etta James. I haven’t heard any of her recordings in years. What a voice!” I replied.

“That’s because you don’t have a car. When you drive around as much as I do, you change the radio station to match your mood. Last night and again this morning, blues was the only thing that worked.”

Harry pulled up in front of a pale green triple-decker. Each floor had a screened-in open-air porch, and all the trim was sparkling white.

“You should have seen this place before Cookie bought it. Total shambles. But Cookie fixed it up and keeps it up. After Aileen, I would say this house is his pride and joy.” Harry sounded as proud as if he’d done the work himself.

“Thanks for the lift, Harry,” I said. “And good luck with Sergeant Sternhagan.”

“Give a holler if you need a lift back,” Harry said, and then he pulled away with tires screeching.

I walked up the few steps to the first floor, and Cookie opened the door before I could knock.

“Thanks so much for coming, Mrs. Fletcher. Come into the kitchen. The kettle is on the boil.”

“That sounds perfect.”

I followed him to the kitchen and he told me to take a seat at the table, which he had already set for two. The kettle whistled, and Cookie poured the boiling water over the tea bags waiting in a teapot decorated with lilies and roses. Then he placed a pitcher of milk, a sugar bowl, and a butter dish next to a plate of biscuits in the center of the table.

When he’d run out of chores, Cookie sat down and looked me straight in the eye. “I can’t tell you how worried I am. Here’s my daughter spending all her time with this guy, Victor Cantrell, somebody I know nothing about, and then he winds up dead and his blood is on my baby’s hands…I gotta say, Mrs. Fletcher, it don’t look good.”

He poured tea into my cup and pushed the biscuit plate in front of me. I took one, more to please him than because I wanted it. “My, this does smell delicious.”

“It’s the herbs—a little sage, some rosemary—adds to the taste and makes them fragrant,” Cookie said. “The reason I wanted to talk to you is that I am so worried about Aileen.”

“Cookie, you have every right to be. And that is why I wanted to see you. I understand that Aileen has a best friend named Mary Jo Carmody, is that correct?”

“Sure, ever since kindergarten.” Cookie looked at me as if I was onto something, although he wasn’t sure what. “That’s it, Mrs. Fletcher! If Aileen told anyone what was fishy about this guy, it would be Mary Jo. You’re right on target there.”

I decided to mend fences while I was digging for information. “Actually, it was Harry’s idea. He thought that one woman to another, one teacher to another, it might work better if I met with Mary Jo Carmody rather than Harry trying to speak to her. And while I am here, Harry has gone looking for Sergeant Sternhagan, who he hopes can provide some helpful information.”

“Wowzers! Looks like Aileen has the whole team on her side.” Cookie beamed. “What do you need from me?”

“For starters, I would like to know how I can contact Mary Jo. Do you happen to know where she’d be at this time of day?” I asked.

“Sure. She’s at work. Mary Jo teaches at the same school as Aileen. I told you they were close, right? Before I called the school this morning to let them know that Aileen would be out for a while, I called Mary Jo to give her the whole scoop. We agreed that we would only say Aileen’s boyfriend died suddenly last night. No mention of anything like murder.” Cookie began to rub his hands together. “Listen, with me along, you can be sure that someone will let you into the building, and the principal, Mrs. Lovejoy, a terrific woman, will give Mary Jo a break from class time to speak with you. I can drive you right now if you want, or at least right after we finish our tea.”

“That’s lovely of you, Cookie, but don’t you think you should be here when Aileen wakes up? She may need you for…” I stopped because Cookie was pointing to the kitchen doorway.

Aileen, wrapped in what must have been Cookie’s navy blue flannel robe, was standing in the doorway and gave me a shy smile.

“Mrs. Fletcher, how nice to see you. Here I was wondering how I was going to track you down so I could thank you for all the assistance you and Dr. Hazlitt gave to me and to Dad last night, and you turn up right here in the kitchen.”

Aileen went to the cabinet nearest the stove and took out a mug that had Boston Marathon printed on it in bright blue letters, then sat down at the table and poured herself a cup of tea.

“Sweetheart,” said Cookie, “why do you think she’s here? Mrs. Fletcher stopped by to find out how you’re doing this morning. Everyone’s worried about you after…last night. Not only did Mrs. Fletcher come by, but Marty Rossi texted first thing this morning to check on you, and Harry McGraw has offered to give us any help we might need.”

Aileen held up her hand like a school crossing guard ensuring that the first graders could walk safely across the street. “Dad, please, I don’t need any help. After all, the police questioned me over and over again last night, and when all was said and done, they sent me home with you. My part in all this is finished.”

Cookie and I exchanged a glance, trying to decide what to say. I shrugged inwardly. It might be best to let Aileen think her involvement in the investigation into Victor’s death was over, even while her father and I were both sure there was more to come.

Aileen finished her tea and then said, “Dad, would you mind if I stayed a few more days? At least until I can go back to Victor’s apartment and return whatever things he’s left in my apartment and collect my stuff from his.”

Cookie stretched his arm across the table and patted Aileen’s hand. “Honey, you can stay here as long as you like. This will always be your home.”

I saw tears begin to well in Aileen’s eyes, and she lowered her head. When she looked up, the tears were flowing and her eyes were shining. She stood and circled the table toward Cookie. He rose and enveloped her in a tight and loving hug. I crept out of the kitchen and sat on a chair in the living room and tried not to listen as Cookie comforted his daughter.

After a while, Aileen came into the living room, thanked me for my kindness, and said, “I think Dad is right, I’m still tired. It’s probably best I take a nap.”

I waited until she shut the bedroom door, and then I rejoined Cookie, who had cleared the plates and cups from the kitchen table. He looked as though he had shed a few tears himself. He began to wipe down the table and said, “Let’s give her a few minutes to fall asleep, and then we can go to the school and talk to Mary Jo.”

Twenty minutes later, we were walking up to a very modern elementary school. In the lobby, there was an attendant at a sign-in table who asked our names and who we’d come to see.

Cookie answered for us both and said we were here to meet with Miss Carmody. The woman scanned a sheet on her desk and said with an unapologetic smile, “I’m sorry, but I don’t see either of your names on today’s visitor’s log.”

Cookie looked crestfallen and said, “I guess I should have called Mrs. Lovejoy, but this is kind of an emergency.”

The look on the woman’s face said she wasn’t going to budge, so I upped the ante. “Mr. Davis is Aileen Davis’s father. You must know her, she is a teacher here.”

“Oh my goodness, yes, she certainly is a teacher here, an excellent teacher. I heard she won’t be returning for a while. Such a heartbreaking event.” The woman shook her head and apparently made a decision. “You wanted to see Mary Jo Carmody. I understand she and Aileen Davis are the best of friends.”

She picked up another piece of paper and said, “You’re in luck. Mary Jo has playground duty right now. If you follow the main hallway until you reach room 107 and then make a left, the exit to the playground will be right in front of you.”

I couldn’t help ogling the hallway walls. Large bulletin boards were covered in student artwork, history projects, and book reports, and I got that nostalgic feeling that always comes over me when I am in a school building. I tucked my teaching days back into my memory where they belonged and reminded myself that my focus had to remain on Aileen and anything her friend Mary Jo could tell us about Aileen’s relationship with Victor Cantrell.

Chapter Eleven

Cookie opened the door to the playground and ushered me through. As soon as she saw me, a stranger, walk into the playground, a pretty redheaded young woman wearing a beige linen shirt dress that clashed style-wise with her tan tennis shoes strode toward me with her hands planted firmly on her hips. I was sure she was about to demand to know what I was doing in the schoolyard when Cookie stepped through the doorway behind me.

The woman’s face changed from teacher in charge of protecting her students to little girl seeing a favorite uncle. She ran past me and threw her arms around Cookie. “It’s so good to see you. I can’t thank you enough for giving me advance warning before I arrived to work this morning. The entire school is abuzz. How is Aileen?”

Just then, we heard a child call, “Miss Carmody, Chelsea scraped her knee.”

In a split second, Mary Jo flew back into teacher mode. She took a first aid kit from a nearby bench and attended to Chelsea’s knee with antiseptic and a bandage. Then, as soon as the little girl went back to playing, Mary Jo called us over.

“I have to keep an eye on the children, and I have a good view from here. Please have a seat and tell me how Aileen is.”

Cookie spent a few minutes assuring Mary Jo that he was taking good care of Aileen, and then he said, “Speaking of, Aileen is taking a nap right now, but I would like to be there when she wakes up. Mary Jo, you can trust Mrs. Fletcher as if you were talking to me. Please tell her everything you can about Aileen and Victor. You know, the kind of stuff a girl would confide in a friend but never tell her father.”

Then he turned to me. “Mrs. Fletcher, I can’t thank you enough. Give me a call when you need a ride and I’ll be here in a flash.”

I thanked him, and as soon as he walked back into the school building, Mary Jo said, “I’m so glad he didn’t stay. Aileen and Victor, well, it wouldn’t have been easy to talk about their relationship with Aileen’s father. Let’s just say Victor was a difficult boyfriend for anyone to have.”

That was something I had already guessed, but still I asked, “In what way exactly?” And I was not surprised by her answer.

“Aileen told me that Victor had been moodier than usual lately, which set off alarm bells for me since I found him to always be on the moody side. She was becoming more and more concerned. And just last week, she invited me out for a coffee and a chat.

“She was visibly upset about something, but when we got to the coffee shop, she dawdled and started talking about some classroom antics a few of her fourth graders had managed to pull off. You know how kids can be at that age.”

I nodded in agreement, anxious for Mary Jo to get to the point.

“Anyway, I knew that whatever was bothering her had nothing to do with kids or work, so I looked her straight in the eye and asked how things were going with Victor. That’s when she told me that he’d confessed to her that he was a compulsive gambler and had maxed out all of his credit cards. He was broke, and worse than that, he was deeply in debt to some loan shark.”

Mary Jo stopped and took a quick look around the playground. Satisfied that her charges were all safely having fun, she continued. “I asked if the shark was Paddy Doyle—I mean, who in Southie doesn’t know about Paddy’s line of work? The fact that I guessed his name so quickly put Aileen into a complete state of panic. At that point, she begged me not to mention any of this to Victor and especially not to her father.

“But after a few minutes, she began explaining her real problem to me. Victor had asked her for money, and the way she said it, although she didn’t tell me an exact number, it sounded like he wanted quite a lot, maybe even more than she has in savings. I remember she said that he sounded so desperate that she didn’t know what to do.” Mary Jo dropped her head and stared at her feet.

“So she asked you for advice,” I speculated. “And what did you say?”

“I told her not to give Victor so much as a red cent, to stall any way that she could. As soon as we left the coffee shop, I called a friend of mine who’s been a member of Gamblers Anonymous for nearly ten years. He told me the best thing Aileen could do was go to Gam-Anon, an organization for people who are affected by someone else’s compulsive gambling. He said the only folks who could give Aileen sound advice were people who had traveled down the same road.” Mary Jo turned away from me and said, “Sean, you’re really good at getting the basketball into the net, but please share with some of the others. How about letting Gemma, Tony, and Juan have some free throws?”

Although he didn’t look too happy about doing so, Sean agreed and tossed the ball to a boy standing nearby.

“Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, where was I?” Mary Jo asked.

“Your friend suggested that Aileen go to Gam-Anon. Do you know if she attended any meetings?”

Mary Jo shook her head. “I only passed the suggestion on to Aileen a couple of days ago and now this…Wait a minute. I just thought of something else. Shortly before she met Victor, Aileen broke up with a guy named Matt Van Houten. He was bossy and possessive, and to be honest, I’m not sure why Aileen gave him a second date, much less wasted time dating him for nearly two months, but I do recall that he was not happy when she ended it. He actually had the nerve to show up outside school several times, and when Aileen was walking to her car, he would sort of chant ‘You’ll be sorry,’ like some character in a horror movie.”

Mary Jo shuddered at the memory.

“And has he been around recently?” I asked.

“Not at all. The third time Matt came around, Mrs. Lovejoy, our principal, called the police. The officers had a strong conversation with Matt, and that was the final time I saw him, at least here at school.” Mary Jo hesitated.

“Where else did you see him, Mary Jo? Please, it could be important.”

“Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, so much time had passed I never connected it to Aileen, but each year my whole family, my parents and sibs, all the cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, and nephews, get together for a Red Sox game. We try to see the Yankees, but that doesn’t always work for everyone’s schedule. About a month ago, we saw the Red Sox clobber the Chicago White Sox nine to four. What a great game.”

I was getting exasperated waiting for the punch line. “And did Matt Van Houten happen to be at the stadium?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. My sister and I were taking her two children to get a snack, and as we were passing a beer station, I heard a familiar voice, really loud and blustery. It was Matt Van Houten, and the man he was yelling at looked enough like Victor Cantrell to be his twin. But then my niece tripped and fell. We stopped and helped her get to her feet. Then her mother and I both fussed over her, so by the time I had a chance to look for Matt and the Victor lookalike, both men were gone. Still, I did wonder…” Mary Jo shrugged.

“You wondered?” I prodded.

“I wondered if the second man was Victor, and if so, was Matt threatening him to stay away from Aileen? Mrs. Fletcher, I’m afraid the bell is going to ring any minute, and I’ll have to take the children back to class, but please feel free to call me if you have more questions. Aileen’s father has my number.”

I had just finished thanking Mary Jo for her cooperation when my cell phone rang and so did the school bell. Mary Jo began rounding up the children, and as she led them into the school building, she waved me to follow.

As I stepped inside, I answered my phone, primarily to stop it from ringing.

“Jessica, where are you?” Harry McGraw sounded stressed, so I gave him the name of the school and was not the least bit taken aback when he said, “I know where it is. Be outside in ten minutes. I’m on my way.”

He ended the call before I could ask what the urgency was. I was afraid Harry had wheedled Sergeant Sternhagan into sharing some news that wasn’t going to make any of us happy.

I walked with Mary Jo to her classroom, and as she herded the children through the doorway, I thanked her for her help.

She gave me a shy smile followed by a warm hug. “You’re the one who deserves thanks, Mrs. Fletcher. You barely know Aileen, and here you are trying your best to help her.”

“I can’t abide any situation where it appears that justice may not be served. Victor Cantrell’s death leaves too many unanswered questions, and I am a person whose curiosity, for better or for worse, drives me to search for the truth. Mary Jo, I do hope we will meet again and under happier circumstances.”

“I hope so too,” she replied, and then she stepped into her classroom and instantly became Miss Carmody, teacher extraordinaire. She gave two sharp claps and commanded, “Seats, everyone. Now.”

I was on the sidewalk in front of the school for less than five minutes before Harry pulled up. “Hurry up—get in the car. I’ve got big news and it ain’t good.”

I climbed in, and as I closed the door I said, “Oh dear, you sounded so frantic on the phone I was afraid any news you have wouldn’t be the best.”

“You can say that again, but please don’t, ’cause my heart can’t take the stress,” Harry said. “The only thing worse would be if Aileen was under arrest, which, as far as I know, she isn’t, but…” He trailed off.

“But what, Harry?”

“It cost me a giant size container of coffee and my most persuasive conversational powers, not to mention two Red Sox tickets, but I finally wore down Howard Sternhagan, and he gave me the absolute skinny. The Boston PD is, quote, ‘looking seriously at Aileen Davis for the murder of her lover, Victor Cantrell.’ Don’t you hate when they word things that way?”

I was so stunned that I was tongue-tied until I finally choked out the one word that I thought described what I had just heard. “Ridiculous.”

“Well, I can’t say you’re wrong, and you know I hope you’re right, but according to Sternhagan, Starkey is more convinced by the minute that Aileen looks good for the murder, or the accident or whatever,” Harry said.

“Accident? If he is thinking of Victor’s death as an accident, then why is he still investigating? Shouldn’t he close the case and move on?”

“Jessica, you should know better. Here in the great commonwealth of Massachusetts, accidents can and sometimes are classified as manslaughter,” Harry said.

“I’m sure that is true everywhere. Harry, do you think it is possible…can we get into Victor’s apartment?”

Harry laughed. “I thought you’d never ask. I been driving in that direction because that was my plan. What are we looking for?”

“Checkbook, bank statements, anything that indicates how Victor Cantrell earned and spent his money. I have it on good authority that he had a serious gambling problem.”

Harry sighed. “He ain’t the only one.”

Now, that did give me a chuckle. “Oh, please, from what I learned from Mary Jo Carmody regarding the amount of Victor’s gambling debts, I can guarantee you are in no way near Victor Cantrell’s league.”

Harry drove by a row of apartment buildings and pointed to the redbrick building where Victor had lived and died. “Oh, this don’t look good. Blue-and-white police department trucks parked up and down the block. Dollars to donuts, Starkey has the techs giving the scene a second going-over in case they missed something the first time. Sternhagan was right: Starkey is definitely serious.”

“What will we do now? I don’t suppose they will let us inside,” I said.

“Jessica, you give up too easy. If you don’t mind being known as my assistant, we can march in bold as brass. I will flash my credentials and say the family hired me to look into this dreadful accident. Sometimes I run into a duty officer or a tech who’s either kindhearted or just plain dopey, and they’ll let me look around for a few minutes. We’re already here, so let’s see if today’s our lucky day.” Harry gave me a grin.

“Well, it is certainly worth a try.” I unbuckled my seat belt.

As soon as we entered the building, I could hear toddlers playing behind an apartment door. Their laughter was refreshing. Harry pointed to the staircase and said, “Second floor.”

When we turned out of the stairwell and onto the floor, I was disappointed to see a police officer standing in the doorway of what I presumed to be Victor Cantrell’s apartment. He had his arms folded firmly across his chest and was shaking his head no with such great force that for a moment I was afraid he would snap his neck.

Amazingly, the recipient of the officer’s emphatic no was not inclined to accept it. It was a tall man with a cleanly shaved head and a blond goatee, dressed in what appeared to be a rather expensive tweed sports jacket and well-cut jeans. I did notice that his black leather boots seemed more in line with last month’s weather than this month’s, but they were every bit as expensive as the rest of his outfit.

As we approached, I heard the man say to the officer, “I promise you’ll be sorry. You can’t refuse a man access to his own property. The commissioner will hear about this. Let me see that badge number again.”

The policeman pumped out his chest as if to say, Here, take a good look, and for good measure he said, “And the name is Jamison, Thomas P.”

The bald man stalked off toward the stairwell, brushing past Harry and me in the process.

As we approached Officer Jamison, out of the side of his mouth Harry whispered, “This ain’t gonna go well. Maybe you should do the talking. He might go easier on you.”

I think Officer Jamison expected us to walk right past him and continue on to another apartment. When we stopped directly in front of him, he seemed taken aback, then asked, “Can I help you folks?”

“Oh, I do hope so,” I answered, wishing I had a clipboard. “My name is Jessica. This is my boss, Private Investigator Harlan McGraw. He has been hired by the Cantrell family to oversee the removal of Mr. Cantrell’s possessions from this apartment. We are here to begin the inventory.”

In a much kinder voice than he had used when speaking to the previous gentleman, Jamison told us that no one—not representatives of the family, not even family members themselves—was allowed to enter until the apartment had been cleared.

I tried to look confused and asked, “Cleared in what way, and by whom? Surely no one is going to take things from the apartment without the family’s consent. I don’t understand.”

Officer Jamison raised his eyes toward the ceiling but dropped them immediately. “Lady, er, Miss Jessica, the Boston Police Department is investigating a death that took place in this apartment. No one will be allowed inside until I have received an order from Detective Lieutenant Starkey.”

“Thank you for that first-rate explanation. We will relay your information to the family. I am sure they will be disappointed, but the law is the law. And at least they will know Victor’s possessions are well guarded.”

As we walked back to the staircase, Harry said, “You did a nice job back there, but did you have to call me Harlan?” He gave me a fake scowl.

I laughed. “In case Lieutenant Starkey had specified that if an annoyance named Harry McGraw came around, the officer is to toss him at once, I thought adding your title and your given name might throw Officer Jamison off the scent.”

“Good thinking. Now we have to come up with plan B,” Harry complained.

“Actually, I was thinking that it might be time to talk to Aileen again.”

We were nearly at the bottom of the stairs when Harry’s foot slid and he grabbed the banister. “Careful here, Jessica, the stairs are slippery.”

From somewhere beneath us on the first floor, a firm male voice said, “There is absolutely nothing slippery on those stairs. Every one of my buildings is kept in tip-top condition at all times.” And when we got to the first floor, the man who had been talking to Officer Jamison when we arrived was standing in the hallway staring at the mailboxes.

He held out his hand first to Harry and then to me. “My name is Michael Anderson. I’m the landlord.” He reached in his pocket and gave me his business card. “Perhaps I could help you. Are you looking for a rental? I can promise you this is one of the best-kept buildings in all of Boston. And the tenants here are extremely high quality. We investigate everyone thoroughly before signing any lease agreements.”

Harry flashed his credential case open and just as quickly snapped it closed. “We’re working with Detective Lieutenant Starkey of the Boston PD. You know, just following up. Can you think of anything you might want to add to what you already told Starkey’s initial interview team about Victor Cantrell?”

“Terrible, just a terrible business. And to happen in my building! Such a gorgeous apartment. How am I ever going to be able to rent it again? When everyone knows a man died there!” He shook his head as if shaking off the horror of it.

“What kind of man was Mr. Cantrell?” I asked.

“He was a perfect tenant—no loud music, no wild parties.” Mr. Anderson scrunched his eyebrows as if deciding on what else he could say. “I never could understand why Jonas, who owns the grocery store on the next block, would always complain, complain, complain about Victor Cantrell every time I stopped in there. Like he wanted me to somehow—poof!—make Victor disappear. As if I could do that. Like I said, he was a good tenant.”

“Can you think of any reason the grocer would have a beef with him?” Harry asked.

Anderson looked over his shoulder to be sure we were alone in the hallway and said, “Jonas is an old man with a young, pretty, and sometimes too friendly wife. I think Jonas suspected that his wife and Victor were…well, you know what I mean by ‘too friendly.’ It was none of my business, but I think Jonas might’ve been right.”

He looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I must leave. I have an appointment. Remember, if you know of anyone looking to rent…” He shoved a business card in Harry’s hand and hurried out the front door.

We were a few steps behind him, so Harry slowed down until Anderson was out of earshot and asked what I thought.

“For Aileen’s sake I hope what we heard here is nothing more than a jealous husband’s imagination,” I said.

“The way I look at it,” Harry said, “I’m happy to have the grocer as a possible suspect to pass along to Sternhagan. And by the way, you make a great ‘assistant.’ Remember years ago when Archie Miles died? Even then I said you and I should partner up.”

I laughed and shook my head.

As Harry opened the car door, he said, “Where to next, partner?”

Chapter Twelve

“Let’s go to Cookie’s house. I think it is time that we talk to Aileen. When I saw her earlier, she was still out of touch with the reality of her situation, and I guess that is to be expected, but if what Sternhagan told you is true—”

“Oh, it’s true, okay? Getting info from Sternhagan’s like pulling teeth, but once he decides to talk, his words are golden—straight-up facts,” Harry insisted.

“Well, when I left Cookie’s house, Aileen had barely woken up and was heading back to bed. Perhaps after resting, she’ll be more open to recognizing that she is in more trouble than she was able to understand last night.”

“But we’re not going to mention the grocer’s wife, correct?” Harry asked.

“Oh, no, I don’t think that is something she needs to hear right now. From what Mary Jo told me, the information we need from Aileen is everything she knows about what kind of financial trouble Victor was in before he died.”

“You mean before he was killed.”

“I suppose that is the correct term, but I would rather not use it when we talk to Aileen. Speaking of which, I wonder how you feel about my taking the lead when we talk to her.”

Fortunately, we were stopped for a red light, because Harry turned and gave me a look as if my suggestion annoyed him. Then the light changed and he laughed as we proceeded through the intersection.

“Works for me. I already said I like the whole woman-to-woman, teacher-to-teacher talk. Not only that, you spoke to Mary Jo. I didn’t, and we haven’t got time for you to tell me in detail everything she told you. Better you learn what you can from a one-on-one conversation with Aileen than I try to grill her. And incidentally, we’re only three blocks away. Time for you to prepare mentally for whatever condition Aileen might be in, if she’ll even see us. For all we know, the door will be bolted and Aileen will have left town.”

As it turned out, nothing was further from the truth. When we arrived at Cookie’s house and rang the doorbell, it was Aileen—fully dressed in jeans and a pink-and-white-striped pullover, hair combed and lipstick applied—who opened the door and invited us inside. As soon as she closed the door behind us, Aileen grabbed my hand and gave it a tight squeeze.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I’m so glad you came back. I want to apologize. I wasn’t in any condition for company this morning, but my dad reminded me that my mother was always one to say, ‘When times are tough, put your best face forward,’ and she was right. Last night was terrible. I’m sure I’ll have flashbacks for a while…”

Then, as if noticing Harry for the first time, she gave him a hug and said, “I’m so lucky you and your friend Dr. Hazlitt came into Gilhooley’s while I was in such terrible shape last night. The doctor was so soothing. Please thank him for me. I’m sure I would have collapsed into hysteria if he hadn’t taken me into the back office and helped me—I guess the word would be ‘adjust’ to the emotional consequences of…of finding Victor that way.” Aileen gave an involuntary shudder. “Dad’s in the kitchen. He’ll be so happy to see you both.”

As we walked toward the kitchen, I said, “Aileen, I have a few questions I would like to ask you, if you think you will be able to talk about Victor. Not about last night, but about Victor, the type of person he was, what he did for a living, so I could get to know him. I certainly don’t want to upset you, but I saw him so briefly…”

Before she had a chance to answer, Cookie came from the kitchen and met us in the dining room, saying, “If timing is everything in life, yours is perfect. I just pulled a tray of Aileen’s favorite oatmeal and apple muffins out of the oven. Delicious with coffee or tea. Please sit yourselves down. I know Harry will take a cup of coffee, but might you, Mrs. Fletcher, prefer a cup of tea?”

“Cookie, you know me too well. Tea and muffins sounds perfectly delicious,” I said, while Harry and I exchanged a glance. Cookie and Aileen had both changed, as if magically, into host and hostess rather than murder suspect and her father. It was all a bit surreal.

Cookie gestured for Aileen to follow him into the kitchen and said, “We’ll be back in a jiff!”

Harry leaned into my shoulder and whispered, “What the…?”

Aileen came back into the dining room with a platter of sweet-smelling muffins and asked if we would like butter. “I brought some along just in case.”

Within minutes, the four of us were seated around the dining room table, and Harry and I were praising the moist and delicious muffins. Cookie appeared delighted when I asked if the recipe was sharable. “Of course. I keep the recipe taped to the inside of the door of one of the cabinets by the stove. If you give me your cell phone, I’ll go snap a picture.”

I passed him my phone and said, “Next fall, when apple season comes to Maine, I am sure to have the best-smelling kitchen on Candlewood Lane.”

When Cookie returned with my phone and sat with us once more, he mentioned he had already called Gilhooley to let him know that he might need some personal time to be with Aileen.

“And what did the old sailor have to say?” Harry asked.

“He said as long as he doesn’t have to fly up from Florida to man the bar, take all the time I need, and he hopes things aren’t too tough for Aileen.”

I saw my opening, and I swiftly took it before the conversation went in another direction.

“Aileen, do you mind talking about Victor?” I looked at her directly so I could gauge her reply.

“You mean with only the four of us here?”

“Yes. Just us four.”

Aileen focused her eyes on the tabletop and said, “I guess that would be okay.”

Cookie moved into protective dad mode. “Honey, anytime you want the talking to stop, I promise it will.”

And he sent a stern look across the table that introduced me to a Cookie I would never have guessed existed. Harry and I both nodded to let him know that his message had been received.

I started by asking how Aileen met Victor and how long they had been dating. She told me they’d met at a friend’s wedding about six months ago and had been dating ever since. She also told me that Victor worked at Boston Allbranch, a private savings and loan company that catered to some ultrawealthy clients.

“And what about Victor’s personal finances? I understand he had some difficulties,” I said.

Aileen hesitated, then shrugged. “I guess it’s okay to talk about, now that he’s…gone. Victor was in a lot of trouble, money-wise. When he first mentioned it, I wasn’t too worried. I thought it was work-related. I mean, his company handles huge sums every day. But the next time he brought it up, he sounded really desperate. Again, I thought it was about his job, so I said something like ‘Can’t you explain to your boss that you made a mistake?’ That’s when he confessed he had a gambling problem and I found out that he owed money, a lot of money, to some very bad people. He was afraid he might get beaten or maybe even killed. He begged me to give him—well, he used the word ‘lend’ him—twenty-one thousand dollars. He promised he could get it all back to me in a few months. When he could see how reluctant I was, he turned on the charm, talking about how things would be different once we got married. I suppose that was his idea of a proposal. He finally got to the point where he told me the truth. He is, or was, a compulsive gambler, and he was in debt to people who he called strong-arm guys.”

Aileen stopped to sip her tea and wipe a tear that had begun to trickle down her cheek. None of us said a word, although her father squeezed her hand in support.

She glanced at Cookie. “Like I explained to Dad, that’s why I’d been so distant lately. Here I was with a huge problem; I was in love with a compulsive gambler who was deeply in debt, and I knew I had the resources to help Victor, but I knew that bailing him out financially probably wasn’t the smart thing to do. I just couldn’t decide whether to help or not to help.”

“Sweetheart, I wish you’d confided in me…” Cookie began, then stopped and put his arm around Aileen. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Thank you for telling us all of this,” I said. “It gives me a clearer picture of Victor.”

“Since we’re talking about the way Victor handled money, I guess there’s something else I should mention,” Aileen said softly. “Victor’s grandmother passed away last year, and recently Victor and I were at a party in a friend’s house, and his cousin Lucas Cantrell happened to be there.

“Victor was quite happy to see Lucas, but Lucas seemed, I don’t know, I guess you would say tense. He was cordial to me for a few minutes, until he asked if he could speak to Victor privately. The two of them left the room and went into the hallway. After a few minutes of standing by myself, I followed, but just as I got to the archway, I heard Victor loudly tell Lucas he was crazy. I hurried into the hall to quiet him down before there was a scene, and Lucas said, ‘Hey, here’s your girlfriend. Does she know you forged papers to receive an inheritance from our grandmother that should have been divided among all three of her grandchildren?’

“I was stunned.

“Victor stepped back until we were side by side and put his arm around me. He said, ‘We don’t have to listen to this nonsense. Grandma was entitled to bequeath her money any way she wanted, and apparently, she wanted to leave it all to me.’

“ ‘That’s a lie,’ Lucas said. ‘You forged those papers!’

“I gasped and Victor tugged me toward the front door. He said, ‘Good night, Lucas,’ and we left without even saying good-bye to our hosts.”

Aileen sighed and rested against the back of her chair. To me, she looked drained by the ordeal of going over so much information that did not show Victor in a good light so soon after his death.

Harry looked at me, and I gave a slight shake of my head. I was done with my questions. Aileen had confirmed everything Mary Jo told me earlier and given us still another suspect in Victor’s murder.

We stayed for a while longer and tried to lighten the conversation with small talk, but it was clear what was on everyone’s mind. Harry looked at his watch and said, “Hey, Cookie, the muffins were spectacular, and I hate to eat and run, but Aileen’s favorite doctor, Doc Hazlitt, needs a ride to some fancy medical lecture at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, and I said I would drive him.”

All four of us walked to the front door together. I was surprised when Aileen gave me a big hug and thanked me for being a friend.

Harry joked that if Cookie got stuck and needed a substitute bartender for a few days at Gilhooley’s, he himself was up to the job. “I make a mean old-fashioned.”

And we couldn’t help but laugh when Cookie answered, “That’s because you are old-fashioned.”

As we walked to the car, I noticed a green Chevrolet with a dented fender parked across the street. There was nothing odd about it, except that whoever sat in the driver’s seat had his or her face hidden by the Boston Globe, which had been exactly the situation when Harry and I arrived more than an hour earlier.

Harry unlocked the car door, and as soon as we were inside, before he’d even put the key in the ignition, he pushed the Chevrolet out of my mind when he said, “That’s two suspects we can toss into Starkey’s lap. Personally, I like the cousin over the neighborhood grocer. Family feuds about a few pennies from Grandma can be a great accelerant for murder, especially if the killer thinks Granny baked cookies more often for the victim than she ever did for him.”

“Are you having flashbacks to childhood?” I asked.

“Oh, so you met my cousin Delwood,” Harry responded, and we both laughed.

* * *

When we got to the Revere Hotel, I said to Harry, “Well, there is no need for you to do more than stop at the front door to let me out because I see Seth pacing up and down, and worst of all, he has looked at his watch twice in the past fifteen seconds.”

I got out of the passenger seat as quickly as I could but still had to listen to Seth say, “Woman, hurry along. I don’t want to keep a doctor of Jason Lancaster’s stature waiting.”

So it was no wonder that I was quite happy to stand at the curb and wave good-bye as they drove away.

In the elevator riding up to my room, I was trying to decide if I should change into a sweatsuit and go to the gym or call down to the desk to see if any of the bicycles that the hotel kept for guests were available when an unexpected idea struck me. Perhaps it was time for me to do a bit of detective work on my own.

When I got to my room, I took off my jacket, traded my shoes for slippers, took a bottle of water from the refrigerator, and fired up my laptop so I could search “Boston Allbranch.” I learned that the company had recently celebrated its one hundredth anniversary and had a huge client list of corporations and well-to-do families—some were named, but most were left to the reader’s imagination. I was also pleased to note that one of the company’s senior vice presidents, a man named Ward Dampier, was a member of the Boston Library board of trustees. That might come in handy if I found I needed to speak to a higher-up at the bank.

Under “service personnel,” I found Victor Cantrell’s name listed as a senior investment adviser. His headshot showed a serious man with just a hint of a smile, and his biography was impressive. Educated at both Harvard and Wharton, he had worked at two highly respected investment firms before joining Boston Allbranch. I was sure that after seeing his work history, most investors would feel comfortable taking his advice.

I shut down the computer and stepped out onto the balcony. The sun had long since burned away the morning clouds, so the entire sky was a bright blue. I focused on taking ten deep breaths, then relaxed for a minute or two, then ten more. Deep breathing always helped me focus my thoughts, and today was no different. I realized that, with Harry otherwise occupied, this was the perfect time for me to have a chat with Lieutenant Starkey.

I went inside and called Mahmood, who would be available in twenty minutes to pick me up in front of the hotel. When I asked if he had enough free time to take me to several stops and wait each time, he assured me that his time was my time.

True to his word, when I stepped out of the hotel, Mahmood was waiting for me, his gray curls covered by a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. As soon as I settled into the back seat of his taxi, he said, “Are you a tourist this afternoon, like when you and the doctor threw the tea, or are we on more of a business venture, perhaps back to the library on Copley Square?”

“I do hope to make several more trips to the library before I leave Boston to return to Maine, but not today. For my first stop, I would like to go to the police headquarters.”

Mahmood laughed as he pulled away from the curb. “You say that is your first stop. I say you better behave while you are there, or you might not have the freedom to go to a second stop.”

He laughed gleefully at his joke, and when he eyed me in the rearview mirror, I smiled along, but I took it as a reminder not to irritate Lieutenant Starkey, lest he decide to put me in an interview room, where I would wait for a very long time before he or anyone else from the department finally spoke to me. It has been known to happen.

Chapter Thirteen

Mahmood stopped directly in front of the main entrance to the police station, but before I got out, he said, “This is a no-standing zone. You see that open space across the street? That is where you will find me when you are finished doing whatever you do in a police station.”

I had no idea if the lieutenant would be available to talk to me or if he was even working today, so I said, “I am not sure how long I will be. You may want to get yourself a cup of coffee or something.”

Mahmood held up a thermos. “I always come prepared, and I have a bag of grapes should I need a snack. Do not worry, Mrs. Fletcher, I will be fine.” He was silent for a few seconds. “I hope you will be fine also. Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you?”

I was taken aback. “Mahmood, that is the kindest thing you could have said. But, no, I will be perfectly fine. If that changes, I will ring your phone twice and hang up. Then you might come inside and look for me.”

I added that dramatic flourish as sort of a tease, but more as a reward for his kindness. Mahmood certainly takes an interest in the welfare of his clients, I thought as I walked up the steps and entered the building.

I was stopped immediately by a police officer who wanted to know whom I’d come to see. When I said Lieutenant Starkey, the officer asked if he was expecting me. I had to admit he was not.

“My name is Jessica Fletcher, and I have some information about a case the lieutenant is investigating. It is really quite urgent that I speak to him,” I said.

The officer looked skeptical but asked me for my driver’s license.

“Will my state of Maine photo ID do? I don’t drive, you see.” I pulled my wallet from my purse and began to search for my card.

“Sure, I guess,” the officer said, and this time the look he gave me said he was pondering how long ago I’d gotten my license revoked for driving under the influence.

I stood by while he copied my information into some sort of log form on his computer, and then he handed me back my card and said, “Wait here, please.”

He picked up a phone and walked a few steps away from where I was standing. Although he spoke softly, I heard him say my name. He hung up and picked up a piece of blue cardboard from the counter. It seemed to be some sort of hall pass similar to the ones we had at the high school where I taught for many years. I watched as he wrote my name, a floor number, and a room number. Then he handed it to me. “Go through this doorway to the elevators. When you get off, make a left, and Lieutenant Starkey’s office is three doors down.”

I thanked him, and as I turned to walk away, the officer said, “One more thing, Mrs. Fletcher. The lieutenant sounded seriously busy. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste too much of his time.”

I nodded without responding. If Starkey would listen to what I had to say, it might shorten his path to resolving at least one of the murders his department was investigating.

I got on and then off the elevator and followed the officer’s directions. The third door was closed and had no identifying writing on it, so I knocked. I heard Starkey’s authoritative voice call me to enter.

When I opened the door, I saw he was on the telephone, so I stopped in the doorway, but he waved me in and pointed to a visitor’s chair. I sat and waited for him to finish. When he hung up, he folded his hands on his desk, looked at me, and asked to what he owed the pleasure of my visit. Since we had been on friendly terms on one of my previous trips to Boston, I hoped he was not being sarcastic.

“Well, I realize how busy you are, Lieutenant, so I will get right to the point. I have learned that Victor Cantrell had significant money issues. He seems to have gotten himself rather heavily into debt.”

The lieutenant nodded, which I took as an acknowledgment that this was information the police had already uncovered.

When he didn’t say anything, I continued. “I believe that Victor might well have been killed by someone to whom he owed money. And I believe that he owed money to more than one someone, which gives you a broader range of suspects.”

Starkey leaned back in his chair and laughed, then said, “If owing money was a cause for murder, half this town would be in the morgue, including me. You should see the redbrick townhouse my wife is trying to get me to buy. I’ll be paying that off until I’m ninety-five or maybe a hundred.

“What you are talking about is a homicide in retribution for unpaid debts, which usually only happens when other methods of debt collection have failed miserably.”

Starkey stood up and walked around his desk toward me. “No, Mrs. Fletcher, this looks more like a crime of opportunity. Whatever led to Victor Cantrell hitting his head on the edge of the fireplace, it incapacitated him just enough that the killer saw their opening and smothered him with the pillow left lying on his chest. That’s all she wrote. Now, if you will excuse me”—he pointed to the pile of folders on his desk—“I have a lot of work to get through before I can go home and continue to try to talk my wife out of wanting that redbrick house.”

He walked me to the door and opened it as if to be sure I would actually leave. “Oh, and Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, “I do hope we get to have some social time in Gilhooley’s before you go back to Maine.”

Since he was rushing me out of his office without giving me a chance to explain any of my theories about Victor’s murder, I supposed that was his way of saying No hard feelings.

But I smiled and agreed that I hoped so as well, and then I went downstairs, turned in my pass to the officer at the desk, and went off to find Mahmood.

As I left the building and crossed the street, it occurred to me that the blood on Aileen’s clothes was only indirectly related to Victor’s death. A pillow was the murder weapon. Aileen mentioned a pillow on Victor’s chest. Had she touched it? Moved it? I would have to talk to her again. But for now, I was satisfied that without his realizing it, Lieutenant Starkey had helped me a great deal by telling me exactly how Victor was killed.

“Ah, I am glad that the police did not find a reason to lock you in a cell, Mrs. Fletcher. You are fast becoming one of my favorite customers. Tell me, where do we go for your next adventure?” Mahmood asked.

He thought he was being amusing, but I had already decided that my next stop would require some playacting on my part, so “adventure” might be the very word.

Mahmood parked a few feet north of the imposing entrance to the headquarters of Boston Allbranch.

When I told the receptionist I was interested in opening an investment account, she quickly directed me to the investment advisers suite, which was a glamorous series of offices with sumptuous royal blue carpeting, mahogany desks, and deeply padded visitors’ chairs.

A woman greeted me at the entrance, asked my name, and walked me to one of the offices where she introduced me to Louise Peyton, who I noticed had the title “Senior Investment Adviser” beneath her name on her desk nameplate.

Before withdrawing, the greeter asked if we would like tea or coffee. Both women looked at me, and when I declined, the greeter said how nice it was to meet me and withdrew.

After a few pleasantries, Louise moved our chitchat in the direction I wished to go when she asked, “So, how can I help you today, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Well, the truth is, I have been thinking for some time about making some investments. I recently received a small inheritance and am not quite sure what to do with it.”

Louise smiled and said, “You’ve come to the right place. We like to start with a risk tolerance assessment, which will tell us what your money personality is. The answer will guide us in deciding how your investments should be allocated.”

She reached into a folder and took out a sheet of paper with a list of questions typed in bright green ink. The color of money.

I jumped into the pause. “I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Cantrell. What a shock! He was so young. And to be murdered like that. I can’t imagine how you and his other coworkers must all feel.” While I spoke, I watched her carefully.

Louise had pursed her lips at the first mention of Victor’s name, and when I talked about his coworkers’ feelings, she crossed her arms tightly and leaned so far back in her chair that the only way she could move farther away from the conversation would be to jump up and flee from the room.

I changed tactics immediately. “Oh, I am sorry. I seem to have upset you. I met Mr. Cantrell at a library fundraiser just the other day. In fact, he was the one who encouraged me to come in to discuss what he called my ‘financial future,’ but the gentleman who’d introduced us—you must know him, Marshall Stryback, director of the Boston Library system—anyway, Marshall called me this morning to let me know that poor Mr. Cantrell had breathed his last. So I thought to honor him, the least I could do would be to follow up on our conversation.”

Then I folded my hands in my lap and waited for her response. I had noticed that when I mentioned Marshall Stryback, there was a slight flicker in Louise’s eye. I hoped that by mentioning him and the fictitious library fundraiser, I would sound like a solid investment prospect and that Louise Peyton would let down her guard and give me some inkling of Victor’s work personality.

When she slowly relaxed, I learned more than I expected.

“To be honest, Mrs. Fletcher, I am sorry to say that no one here was surprised that Victor Cantrell was murdered. He was difficult, to say the least. He could never be considered a colleague. Victor persisted in trying to steal clients from other investment advisers and, with his charm, often succeeded. What we all found most intolerable was that he consistently sniped at coworkers in front of higher-ups, trying to demean our value to the company.” She stopped suddenly as if realizing that she might have said more than she intended.

Then she sighed. “This kind of behavior simply did not exist here until Mr. Cantrell arrived. So I am sure that most of us will not be sorry he is gone, even under such unfortunate circumstances. Now about your risk tolerance assessment…”

I dutifully answered every item on the sheet and discussed various plans for my “inheritance.” I promised to be in touch after I’d had time to take a good look at Louise’s notes and recommendations.

As she walked me back to the suite entrance, Louise said, “I hope you don’t think I was too harsh when we spoke about Victor Cantrell, but since, well, since what happened happened, I thought it best you learned the truth.”

Because she had given me information that would help me suggest to Lieutenant Starkey that the field of suspects in Victor’s murder might very well include a work colleague, it was easy for me to be completely sincere when I said, “No problem at all, Louise. I always appreciate honesty.”

I wanted to make one more stop before going back to my hotel, and when I asked Mahmood if he had time, he chuckled. “Mrs. Fletcher this is the easiest day I’ve had in weeks. Drive a little, rest a lot. I have read the newspaper, texted back and forth with my grandson, who is complaining about his mathematics homework, and I even took the opportunity to clean out my glove compartment.”

He tapped a button and the compartment door opened. “See. Neat and tidy. If you’re going to be more than ten minutes at the next stop, I might even take a nap.”

I gave him Cookie’s address and asked about his grandson’s math difficulties.

As I suspected he would, Mahmood spent the brief ride to Cookie’s house telling me entertaining stories about all three of his grandchildren. As long as I commented or laughed at the appropriate times, I was free to let my mind ruminate on all that I had learned. I concluded quite easily that Aileen Davis was not in nearly as perilous a situation as she’d seemed to be earlier today. Still, there was more I needed to find out.

Cookie’s car was parked in front of his house, so Mahmood parked two doors down. I noticed the same green Chevy parked across the street, but when I looked more closely, I saw that it was empty. Mentally, I shrugged. My curiosity sometimes went into overdrive, and I concluded this might have been one of those times. The car apparently belonged in the neighborhood. Perhaps on the two previous occasions I saw it, the driver was waiting for a friend or relative and was simply reading a newspaper to pass the time, as Mahmood had done while waiting for me.

As Seth would often remind me, sometimes my nosiness went too far.

As I got out of the taxi, I saw a tall blond man in jeans and a hoodless gray sweatshirt with Bruins written across the chest in large black-and-gold letters approach the Chevy, open the trunk, and place a small paper bag inside. Then he looked up, and when he saw me watching, he turned and walked back in the direction from whence he’d come.

I climbed the steps to Cookie’s porch, and he opened the door before I reached the top step.

“Mrs. Fletcher, come on in. I was just about to run to the store, but that can wait. Please have a seat.” He gestured toward the sofa.

“Actually, I wanted to ask Aileen a question, but if she is resting, please don’t disturb her.”

“Aileen is doing laundry. She seems eager to find things to keep herself busy. When I came home after dropping you off to speak with Mary Jo, Aileen was running the vacuum cleaner through the living room and dining room. Then after you and Harry left, she asked me to take her to her apartment so she could pack some things and stay here with me for a while.”

“That is a good idea,” I said.

“I didn’t even have to push her to stay. It was her idea. I think she’s more nervous than she wants me to see. Let me tell her you’re here,” Cookie said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go to the grocery while you’re here; that way, she won’t be alone.”

As soon as Cookie said that, something clicked. Was it possible that the man with the green Chevy was waiting until Aileen was alone? Did he want to talk to her privately, or worse, did he plan to threaten her because of something Victor had done or perhaps hadn’t done?

Cookie called down the hallway, “Aileen, Mrs. Fletcher’s here.”

Aileen came into the room carrying an empty laundry basket. “Hey, Mrs. Fletcher, I’m so glad you came by again. Dad, when you get to Scully’s, don’t forget we need eggs.”

“Leaving right now, sweetheart. If you think of anything else we need, just text. I have my phone. I’ll be right back.” And Cookie scooted out the door.

Aileen walked to the window and looked out. I presumed she was watching her father get into his car, but I heard an engine start and a car drive away, and yet Aileen stayed at the window.

When she was satisfied that she had seen whatever it was she needed to, she came back and sat on an old wooden rocking chair. It was painted black, and the seat was covered with a worn gray cushion. I wondered if it had belonged to her mother and was now a comfort spot for Aileen.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I’m so glad you and I have a chance to speak alone, for a couple of reasons. First, I want you to have this.” She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a cell phone.

“That is Victor’s spare phone,” she said, leaning over and handing it to me. “In all the chaos, I never thought of it. A while back, he said it was for a special work project and asked me to keep it for him. I admit that was odd, but I trusted him. When you’re in love…”

I nodded but didn’t say anything that would interrupt her train of thought.

“Now and again, he would take it back or come to my house for dinner and ask for it, but when he went home, he would leave it behind. I found it when I went home for some clothes. I didn’t want Dad to see it. He’d only fuss about what trouble I could have gotten myself into, but I thought you might know what to do with it.”

“Well, you have to give it to Lieutenant Starkey, of course…”

I stopped when I saw her face.

“What is it, Aileen?”

“I can’t. I just can’t go back to the police station. Being there last night was almost as horrible as finding Victor’s body.”

“I understand. Perhaps I can take it for you. Tell me, did you ever play any of the messages or read the texts?”

She shook her head.

“I think it is time we find out what this phone can tell us, don’t you?” I said as I tapped the On button, wondering with anticipation what we might see or hear.

Chapter Fourteen

Iimmediately looked at the text messages and was surprised at how few Victor had sent, all to the same phone number, but when I read the content, I knew exactly who the recipient was and what Victor was planning. My problem was what to tell Aileen. Luckily for me, I had time to decide, because she had other things on her mind.

“Mrs. Fletcher, I really need you to do me a favor, and it must be quick, before my father comes back from the grocery store.” Aileen looked so serious that I dropped the phone into my purse and gave her my undivided attention.

“I don’t know if you noticed, but there’s a man in a beat-up Chevy who’s been hanging out on this block for most of today,” Aileen said. “And I’m pretty sure he’s waiting to get me alone. I think he might be a friend of Victor’s and has something to tell me or to give me. I think it’s personal, because when I went out on the porch and was waiting for Dad to get his keys, the man got out of the car and began to walk my way, but as soon as he saw Dad come out, he turned and walked down the block. Dad and I went to my place, and when we came back, the Chevy was gone, but then it turned up again about an hour ago and has been here ever since.”

I was certain she had a plan in mind, so I asked her directly, “What would you like to do and how can I help?”

And so it was about ten minutes later that Aileen and I were standing at the top of the porch steps saying loud good-byes. I played my part by walking down the stairs and then turning around and semi-shouting to Aileen, “When your dad comes back, please say I am sorry I had to leave without getting a chance to spend more time with him.”

When I got into the taxi, Mahmood remarked that he’d expected I would have a longer visit and asked if I was ready to go back to the hotel. “It has been a long day for you, Mrs. Fletcher. Perhaps it is time for you to get some rest.”

“Not just yet, Mahmood. For now I would like you to pull away from the curb, drive up to the corner, make a right turn, and then drive very slowly around the block until we are back where we started.” I looked out the rear window and saw the young man get out of the Chevy and begin to cross the street.

“Aha! I get it. The police have sent you to spy on someone. It is like I am driving Mrs. James Bond. Wait until I tell my grandchildren. They will not believe it,” Mahmood said as he made the right turn.

“It is best that they don’t believe it. At least not the part about the police sending me to spy.”

“So, you are spying on your own? Am I driving slow enough? Tell me, who are we watching?” Mahmood was beside himself with enthusiasm.

When I explained what Aileen had asked me to do, it raised his excitement level even more. “You mean that young girl who walked out with you is acting as the bait? Are you sure I should be driving so slow?”

“We are just fine. If the man has approached her, Aileen will be safe until we get there. She is on the porch in the open. Any passerby can see the two of them.”

“What if he has a gun and forces her into the house?” Mahmood asked as he turned the final corner.

I hadn’t thought of that at all, but as we drove up the block, I was relieved to see Aileen standing on the porch talking to the Bruins fan, and she did not look as though she was in the least bit of distress.

Mahmood pulled into a parking spot in front of the house next door to Cookie’s and said, “Do you want me to come with you? I am stronger than I look.”

“That won’t be necessary. I am quite sure I’ll be safe.”

“If you say so, but I am right here with my phone in my hand to call the police if necessary.”

I wasn’t sure if Mahmood was serious or teasing, but I was beginning to realize that our stop at police headquarters had certainly fired up his imagination.

As I climbed the few stairs to the porch, Aileen said, “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, you’re back. Um, this is Dave.”

The Bruins fan reached out to shake my hand. “I’m a friend of Mary Jo Carmody.”

“I am happy to meet you. I understand you are a longtime member of Gamblers Anonymous,” I said bluntly.

“So much for anonymity,” Dave said with a grin. “Mary Jo and I had been talking about ways to help Aileen address Victor’s problem, and I had suggested Gam-Anon, a group that supports folks who are affected by the gambling habits of family or friends.

“When Mary Jo heard what happened to Victor, she called me this morning and told me I could find Aileen here. Since I’m off from work today, I decided to see if there is any way I can help Aileen.”

“But you were waiting around until you could approach her when she was alone.”

“Yep. On account of the whole anonymity thing. But you caught me, Mrs. Fletcher.” Dave grinned again.

“Well, with Aileen’s permission, I will go inside and make a phone call so you two can finish up your conversation before Aileen’s father returns.”

I already had my hand on the doorknob when Aileen said, “Please, go right ahead, Mrs. Fletcher.”

I sat on the couch and pulled out both my cell phone and the phone Victor had kept hidden at Aileen’s apartment. I looked at the only number that Victor had texted, and even though I was positive I knew whose phone he’d been texting, I used my own phone to call the number to verify. As soon as it was answered, my suspicions were confirmed. I apologized for dialing a wrong number and hung up.

Next, I called Harry McGraw and was frustrated when I wound up in his voicemail. In desperation I called Seth, who answered immediately. “Jessica, you won’t believe the news we have—”

I interrupted immediately. “Seth, are you still with Harry?”

“Yes, and we’ve made an amazing discovery.” I heard Harry’s voice in the background but couldn’t make out what he said; then Seth continued. “Harry wants me to tell you one piece of the puzzle is solved.”

“Wherever you two are, please head over to Cookie’s house. Tell Harry I have a puzzle piece that may fit right in with his.”

“What? I’m talking about Harry’s big case, Jessica, what are you talking about?”

“Seth, we are both talking about the same thing.” As Aileen opened the front door, I said, “I have to go. I will explain when you get here.”

I looked over Aileen’s shoulder, but Dave was nowhere in sight. Good. I wanted to talk to Aileen before Cookie came home or Seth and Harry arrived.

“That was nice of Dave to follow up with you. And Mary Jo is a good friend to realize you will need all the support you can get in the coming days.”

Aileen seemed to be fighting off tears. “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t understand. How could I love a man like Victor? Why didn’t I leave him when I saw the warning signs? Dave just told me that sometimes when a compulsive gambler dies, his family and loved ones find out that there are debts in their names. Debts they never knew existed. I don’t even know how to find out whether Victor put my name on any loans or…or whatever. How could anyone do that to someone he claimed to love?”

Then her tears started to flow.

I stood, handed her a wad of tissues I’d taken from my purse, and tried to comfort her. She was still sobbing when Cookie, his arms filled with grocery bags, pushed the door open with his shoulder and declared cheerfully, “Aileen, Scully’s had cannoli just the way you like them, with the shell dipped in dark chocolate.”

Then he saw Aileen’s face. He set the bags on a nearby chair, and I stepped away as he gathered Aileen in his arms. “Shh, sweetheart, it’ll all be all right, I promise you. And did I ever break a promise I made to you? No, I did not. Now you sit right here with Mrs. Fletcher, and I’ll bring you some cannoli.”

Aileen gave him a half smile and sat down in the rocker.

Cookie gathered up the groceries and went into the kitchen.

“Aileen, I know you are upset, but I have to ask you a question. You told us that when you found Victor, you lifted up his head to place a pillow under it.”

“That’s right, but then…the blood.” Aileen shivered as if a breeze from the North Pole had suddenly blown through the room.

“This is very important. Do you remember where you got the pillow?”

She looked at me quizzically but answered. “Of course I remember. I grabbed it from the couch. It was a small yellow-and-white-striped throw pillow that had been in the corner of Victor’s couch for as long as I’d known him. He won it along with a bottle of cheap champagne at some sort of charity fundraiser shortly before we met. He considered it a good luck charm because it was a prize. We used to laugh about it, the ‘prize’ that cost him a hundred dollars in raffle tickets.”

“Last night you mentioned that when you first saw Victor, there was a throw pillow on his chest. Are you sure you didn’t try to put that pillow under his head?”

Aileen said, “Oh, no, that fluffy pillow was much too large. I looked around for something small enough to slide under Victor’s head so that he wouldn’t be resting on the bare wood floor.”

I needed to confirm what I hoped was true. “So you are sure you never touched the pillow that was resting on Victor’s chest?”

Aileen said, “Well, I may have bumped it with my elbow, but I never picked it up. It was too big to be of any use.”

I took a deep breath and was about to tell Aileen that Victor had been smothered by that very large pillow when Cookie came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced tea and a plate of the most delicious-looking cannoli, which he set down on the coffee table just as there was a knock at the front door.

“What now?” Cookie said under his breath as he went to answer it. I was the only one who was not surprised to see Harry and Seth standing on the porch.

Harry spotted the cannoli immediately and said, “Doc, looks like we got here just in time for treats.”

Seth ignored him and walked right over to me. “I saw Mahmood outside and when I stopped to say hello, he told me that he’d had the most exciting time driving you around town. He was almost delirious. He jabbered something about the police and a pretty girl being the bait. Then he told me that it was safe for us to go into the house because the young man was gone. Jess, what on earth were you up to today?”

“Oh please, Mahmood has a vivid imagination. He drove me while I got a few chores done, and the young man he saw was here because he’d been asked to stop in by Aileen’s friend Mary Jo Carmody. Mary Jo herself will probably be by later.

“Speaking of Mahmood, if when you leave here you two will be heading back to the hotel, I’d like to tag along. If that works, I should go outside and pay Mahmood for the day and let him go.”

“Too late,” Seth said. “I already paid him on your behalf with a generous tip besides. I’ll settle up with you later. Now, where are these treats Harry mentioned? Ayuh, right there, I see.”

Cookie invited us all to sit down, then went into the kitchen and came back with another tray filled with mini muffins, plates, and glasses. “Here you are, folks. No one goes hungry in this house.”

We started passing around glasses of tea and the plates of mini muffins and cannoli, along with paper napkins, which we would certainly need.

It was as if we had an unspoken agreement to sit quietly and nibble on our snacks, although I am sure Harry was as anxious to tell me his discovery as I was to tell him mine.

When we were all pretty much finished eating, I said, “Harry, Seth sounded very excited when he and I spoke on the telephone. I understand you made a breakthrough on your case.”

“It was a bunch of lucky coincidences, which almost never happens, at least not to me. Coincidence number one, Seth’s friend Dr. Lancaster happened to be speaking at Brigham and Women’s Hospital about advances in geriatric care during the same week you were speaking at the main library. So you and Seth came here together; otherwise I might never have known Seth was in town, and I certainly would never have met Dr. Lancaster, who, I might add, is a real gentleman.”

“That’s all true, I suppose,” I said, although I really wanted Harry to get straight to the point, and I was sure that Cookie and Aileen were completely bored.

Harry held up two fingers. “Coincidence number two, a week or so before you arrived, I get a call from Ali Sulaiman, the president of Cure All Pharmaceuticals, who hires me for a job. He needs me to investigate calls and texts he is getting on his private cell phone that seem to be leading up to extortion. When we sit down, and although it is like pulling teeth, I finally get the information from him. His company has just gone into human trials on a dementia drug called Objective 85, and he thinks the extortion has something to do with the trials, but he can’t figure out the why or the who.”

Seth interjected, “And the third and final coincidence is a doozy. Tell them, Harry.”

Harry rubbed his hands together, a sure sign the finale was coming. “Today Jason Lancaster invited us to have coffee with him and his friend, Dr. August Baxter, a neuroscientist from the National Institute of Health, John Edward Porter Neuroscience Research Center.

“We were having a nice enough time. I was totally out of my league, but I did my best to be polite, when all of a sudden my ears perk up. This Dr. Baxter begins describing something he had worked on for close to four years. Initially he’d been hopeful, even fairly positive, that it would lead to a drug that would delay the progress of some dementias after the onset. But by the second round of trials, he knew it was a failure. Then he went into some technical jargon that I didn’t understand except that the words—the ingredients, I guess you could call them—sounded so familiar that I realized this Objective 85 that Ali Sulaiman was touting was awfully close, if not exactly the same, as Dr. Baxter’s failed formula. That may be why Sulaiman feels so threatened by the anonymous calls he’s been receiving. If word gets out that the drug is a failure before the trials are anywhere near finished, investors will flee, and that will cost his company a great deal of money. It might even cost him his job.”

“If I may,” Seth said. “From a medical standpoint, it’s perfectly all right to build your study on previous research that some other entity has done, provided you’re open about it and there’s a cooperative nature to the venture. Otherwise, patent laws may prohibit it.”

Harry chimed back in. “Right. If one pharmaceutical company thinks that another company had been on the right track but made a wrong turn somewhere, they can’t just snap up the previous research, because there might be an existing patent.”

Cookie was positively glassy-eyed, while Aileen was doing her best to look interested. I was getting jumpier by the minute.

“So what you are saying is that Cure All Pharmaceuticals may have cheated by basing their research on information they got from…”

Harry nodded in agreement. “From a research project done by a division of the NIH, no less. It’s like stealing Christmas from Santa Claus. Now I understand what has Sulaiman so crazy. I thought he was worried that this was some sort of corporate espionage and another company might develop the drug before Cure All could get it to market. That isn’t his problem at all. He’s afraid that someone will tell the world he’s a thief. He stole a topflight organization’s imperfect work product and is pushing his staff to find a way to fix it.”

“And his company is small enough,” added Seth, “that he thought they could go unnoticed until they made their grand announcement.”

“But somebody did find out and decided to make some money with a little blackmail,” Harry said. “And that’s why Sulaiman hired me. Not to protect the company but to protect himself. He should have been honest with me. I’ve got a good mind to go a couple of rounds with him in the back room of Gilhooley’s.”

That made Cookie laugh. “Harry, you know Gilhooley gets cranky when he hears about that sort of thing happening. Try it and he’ll be on the first plane from Florida to go a couple of rounds with you himself.”

“If Mr. Sulaiman had been honest with you, would you have taken the case?” I asked.

“Maybe not, although the fee is so good I would have been tempted,” Harry said. “Either way, I’m knee-deep in the investigation, and even though I feel sure of the why, I have no idea of the who.”

I smiled. “Harry, I think we may be able to figure that out.”

Chapter Fifteen

Ireached into my purse and took out the cell phone that Victor Cantrell had given to Aileen for safekeeping, or more likely to effectively hide it.

I opened the phone, went to the texts, and read aloud, “Objective 85 will be your ruin.” Followed by “Objective 85 is a farce.”

Harry bounced out of his seat and tried to grab the phone from me, but I held it back and said, “Aileen gets all the credit for bringing this phone to my attention. Victor left it at her apartment, and she found it earlier today when she went home to get her clothes.”

Harry leaned down and gave Aileen a kiss on the top of her head. “I owe you a lobster dinner for sure.”

Aileen tried to smile, but I imagined she was upset at finding out still another flaw in Victor’s character: he was not only a compulsive gambler but a blackmailer as well.

Cookie asked the most natural question. “How did a guy like Victor find out about these drug trials?”

Seth said, “It wouldn’t be as hard as you might think. The medical community is always rife with gossip and anxious to learn about any new drug that will benefit our patients. If Victor has even one friend who’s a doctor, a nurse, a physical therapist, a pharmacist…”

“I get it,” Cookie said, “but what I don’t understand is why he’d put my little girl in jeopardy by keeping his blackmail telephone at her house. She could have been in danger.”

“Well, we don’t have to worry about that anymore,” I said. “I promised Aileen I would turn this phone over to Lieutenant Starkey, and that is what I will do.”

“Wait a minute,” Harry said. “I want to take a good look at that phone, then show it to Sulaiman and collect my fee. Blackmailer’s dead. Problem solved.”

Aileen gasped.

Cookie reached out for her hand, saying, “Harry, watch it.”

Harry grimaced. “Aileen, sweetie, I’m sorry. We don’t know for sure…”

He trailed off and I said, “Harry, I’d like you to drive me to police headquarters. Aileen and I gave you the courtesy of letting you know what was on Victor’s carefully hidden cell phone. But now the phone has to be turned over to the police. I am pretty sure a murder outranks a simple case of blackmail.”

Harry sighed. “When you’re right, you’re right. Okay, all aboard the McGraw Express. Next stop Schroeder Plaza.”

At the door, Seth said he would be back for more cannoli before we went home to Maine, and Cookie replied, “Anytime.”

Aileen gave me a hug and thanked me for taking care of the phone. “I can’t bear the thought of ever setting foot in a police station again. That whole night was such a horrid experience. I can’t thank you enough for taking care of this.”

It took Harry several tries before the engine in his car finally turned over. Seth couldn’t resist saying, “Sounds like the McGraw Express could use a tune-up.”

“And once Sulaiman pays my fee, this baby is going straight to Mancz Brothers Mechanics to be treated like the queen she is.” Harry laughed.

Traffic was light, and it took us less time to arrive at headquarters than I thought it would. Harry parked the car, and we went inside only to have the officer at the desk tell us that Lieutenant Starkey wasn’t in the building and ask if we’d like to leave a message.

Harry said, “What about Sergeant Sternhagan?”

The officer, whose name tag read Norris, nodded and said, “Yeah, he might be around.”

He picked up a desk phone, but before he dialed, Norris looked at Harry and asked, “Who’s looking for him?”

“Tell him Mrs. Fletcher is here and she has two bodyguards.” Harry laughed, but neither Officer Norris nor I thought he was funny.

When the elevator doors opened, Sergeant Sternhagan was standing there to greet us. “Harry, I should have known.”

Harry stepped out of the elevator and clapped a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “Howard, is that any way to treat a friend, especially one who’s bringing you fresh evidence in a murder case?”

Sternhagan’s head swiveled as if he was afraid the wrong person might have overheard. “Come into my office.”

We followed him down the hall, through a large crowded office. Its walls were covered with maps and whiteboards, and the floor area was jam-packed with desks. Off to one side, Sternhagan opened a door and ushered us into a tiny room that could barely contain a desk with a chair behind it and several oversized file cabinets.

“Sorry, there are no visitor’s chairs. Mrs. Fletcher, why don’t you take my seat?” Sternhagan said.

“Thank you, but it’s not necessary. We won’t be here long. I just wanted to turn this in, and Harry was kind enough to drive me,” I said.

He held out his hand and took the phone, saying, “What exactly is this?”

“Howard, it’s a cell phone,” Harry said impatiently.

“I can see that, Harry, but why is Mrs. Fletcher giving it to me?” the sergeant asked.

“Because it belonged to Victor Cantrell,” I said before they could continue their back-and-forth.

Sternhagan held up the phone and looked at it, and then he looked at me. “Exactly where did you get the murder victim’s phone?”

“As you may know, Aileen Davis is staying at her father’s house temporarily. Earlier today, she and her father drove to her apartment so that Aileen could pick up some clean clothes and other necessities. It was then that she came across the phone that Victor had left at her place some time ago.” I spread out my hands to show that was all the information I had.

“And why didn’t Ms. Davis bring the phone to us?” he asked.

“To be honest, she told me that being here last night was traumatizing and she hoped she would never have to come into this building again,” I said.

“Some days I know exactly how she feels,” Sergeant Sternhagan said. “It was nice of you to bring the phone, but we will need to talk to her. How long did she have the phone? Did she ever use it? Are her fingerprints on it?”

Harry cut in. “Howard, all of our fingerprints are on it. We practically passed the phone around Cookie’s living room. Now stop playing super snoop and listen to what we have to tell you.”

Sternhagan nodded, and I told him that Victor had asked Aileen to store this auxiliary cell phone for him and that he occasionally asked for it while he was in her house, but if he took it away, he always returned it.

Then it was Harry’s turn. “I can already tell you that the phone is a burner, because it was used to text and call a client of mine.”

“How do you know that was done from this phone?”

“Because the texts are still on the phone, and I saw the exact same messages on my client’s private cell phone,” Harry said.

Sternhagan bent over the corner of his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a plastic bag. “Okay, I’ll have it bagged and tagged and show it to Starkey when he gets in. But I have to tell you—if, as you say, Aileen Davis had possession of the victim’s burner phone, that only makes more suspicion fall on her, not less. Especially if he was using the phone in some sort of criminal activity.”

“Give me a break. Do you honestly think that Cookie’s daughter—” Harry began but never finished because a deep voice interrupted.

“Doesn’t matter what Sergeant Sternhagan thinks. You better start worrying about what I think.” And the broad shoulders of Lieutenant Starkey filled the doorway.

The lieutenant brought us to his spacious office, and he asked us to be seated, which was easily done since there were more than enough chairs for the three of us. Then he and the sergeant left us there to twiddle our thumbs while they went who knows where, taking Victor’s cell phone with them.

Seth was the first one to say exactly what we were all feeling. “Why are we sitting here when we could be at the hotel having a nice cool drink and a snack? Let’s just leave.”

Harry said, “I wish. Don’t kid yourself, Doc. Somewhere within ten feet of the outside of this door is a police officer with orders to be sure we don’t leave until Starkey says we can.”

I was sure Harry was correct. “I am sorry I got the two of you involved in this. I should have had Mahmood drive me here, but it never occurred to me that the lieutenant would make a mountain out of what I considered to be a very simple molehill. After all, we have the phone that we know belonged to Victor Cantrell, and it contains the exact same messages that Harry has seen on Mr. Sulaiman’s cell phone. And we gave all of that information to Sergeant Sternhagan. Why are we still here?”

“We’re here because Starkey wants us here,” Harry said as he got up and began pacing the floor. “Doc, ethically speaking, what do you think should be our next step? I mean, shouldn’t Cure All announce that what they’re doing is really a follow-up to a study that the National Institute of Health started and then dropped? What kind of pressure should I put on Sulaiman? And what do I do if he won’t go public?”

Before Seth could answer, Sergeant Sternhagan came through the door. “Lieutenant Starkey is a minute or two behind me. He has a few questions, and then I’m sure he’ll thank you for your cooperation and send you on your way.”

“What is the big fuss, Howard? We already told you everything we know.”

“Be patient, Harry, and you’ll be out of here in a few minutes. Keep fussing, and you may wind up having to stay here longer,” Sternhagan said.

“Well, I for one am anxious to leave,” Seth said at the exact moment Lieutenant Starkey entered the room.

“Indulge me for a few minutes, Dr. Hazlitt, and I’m sure you’ll soon be on your way. What do any of you know about Ali Sulaiman, the president of Cure All Pharmaceuticals?”

Seth and I both turned to Harry, who said, “I’d plead client confidentiality, but since we’re talking murder…Sulaiman hired me to find out who was threatening to extort large sums of money from him because of a drug in development called Objective 85. When Aileen found Victor’s burner phone, Jessica read the texts, and since I had discussed the case with her, she quickly realized Victor Cantrell was the probable blackmailer. That’s why we brought the phone to you.”

“And where is Ms. Davis?” Starkey asked.

I explained that Aileen was so upset at the very thought of returning to the police department that I had volunteered to deliver the phone myself. “Harry was kind enough to drive me here.”

I was getting tired of all the verbal repetition, but I also realized that was normal police procedure. I had often watched Sheriff Mort Metzger use the same process with both witnesses and suspects, generally with great success.

So I was caught off guard when Starkey said, “I hope you realize, Mrs. Fletcher, you may have done Ms. Davis more harm than good. She had sole possession of a telephone that sent threatening texts and calls to Mr. Sulaiman, and yet she has you bring it to us, hoping what? That you could just hand it in at the desk downstairs and walk away without answering a single question? Why didn’t she just toss it in the trash?”

Seth said, “Lieutenant, I told you last night, and I must repeat it today, Aileen Davis had a dreadful shock when she discovered the dead body of someone she cared about. I can and will testify in any court that she is not yet herself and may not be for some time. I objected to your questioning her last night, and had she offered to come here today, I would have advised strongly against it.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” the lieutenant said mildly, giving no indication that Seth’s opinion had any value. “And now you are all free to leave.” He walked over to the door and held it open.

None of us said a word as Sternhagan escorted us to the elevator and said good-bye. We rode down in silence. When we arrived at the lobby, we continued walking toward the front door until Officer Norris called out my name and reminded us to return our building passes.

Once we were in Harry’s car with the windows rolled up and the doors locked, I said, “What is wrong with Lieutenant Starkey? Why is he is so fixated on Aileen? I don’t recall him ever being so pigheaded.”

Harry gave a sarcastic laugh. “That’s because you’ve only run into him a couple of times. I’m always in his line of vision. He’s like the proverbial dog with a bone. He chews and chews until he’s sure he’s gotten every morsel of meat, and then he starts chomping on the bone itself. And that’s why he has the highest clearance rate in the Boston PD.”

“So we just have to tolerate his focusing on Aileen?” I asked.

“In a manner of speaking, we do. But the truth is, we’re all sure Aileen didn’t do it. Starkey’s a good cop, so I believe he’ll come to that conclusion soon enough. In the meantime, we’ll be ahead of him. Don’t forget we have the grocer and the cousin as potentials. And if I’m totally honest, Ali Sulaiman would fall into the suspect category if we could prove that he already knew who his blackmailer was and only hired me as his cover,” Harry said. “Anything else we can do?”

Seth said, “I wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on Aileen for the next day or so. Maybe I could stop by for some reason or other.”

“I promised to attend a meeting of the Massachusetts Reading Association tomorrow morning, but I am wondering if there is something I could do afterward. Harry, we have two suspects. Perhaps you could look into the grocer with the flirtatious wife.”

“While you take a look at Cousin Lucas? How do you plan to make that happen?” Harry sounded more curious than critical.

“In a situation like this…”

“Call it what it is, Jessica, it’s a murder,” he said.

“All right, I will. In murder cases, it takes a bit longer for the body to be released to the family for services and interment. Often the family is at a loss as to what to do with themselves during that time.”

“There’s plenty the family has to do,” Harry said. “Police interviews for one thing. We all know they can go on and on, especially with someone as exacting as Starkey, and then there’s notifying the victim’s friends, distant family members, and coworkers if he has any.”

“All true,” I said, “but in between the many items on that to-do list, there are long hours of nothingness. The normal routine is so disrupted that I find it is common for family members to gather together for solace and support. Friends often make condolence calls or drop off meals.”

“I’m beginning see where you’re headed,” Harry said. “We find out where the family is hunkered down and then we pop in to say how sorry we are about good old Victor.”

“As I said, Harry, I think you will be much more successful talking to the grocer and especially to his flirtatious wife.”

Harry laughed. “Well, if you insist.”

“Oh, I do. And I will call Cookie and ask him to order a couple of dozen cannoli from—what was the store? Scully’s, that was it. Then Aileen and her aunt Jessica can make a condolence call on the Cantrell family.”

“Jess, I have to say, before you even consider exposing Aileen to Victor’s family, I would need to spend some time with her to be sure she’s up to it.” As always, Seth wanted his medical responsibilities to be our first priority.

“Aileen’s health and safety is my number one concern,” I assured him. “If it is your medical opinion that she should not make a condolence call on Victor’s family, I am sure that Cookie would be willing to accompany me.”

“Better listen to her, Doc,” Harry said. “I’m guessing wild horses couldn’t keep Jessica from making a condolence call on Victor’s family and worming her way into a conversation with Cousin Lucas, if he’s there, or asking others about him if he’s not.”

And, of course, Harry was correct.

Chapter Sixteen

When we got back to the hotel, Seth invited me to join him and Harry in the dining room for, as he called it, a substantial snack.

“I think I could use a sandwich and a nice bowl of that Boston clam chowdah. Won’t you come along, Jess?”

“I wish I could, but I have some phone calls to make, and then I have to prepare for tomorrow morning. I’ve been asked to speak at the annual convention of the Massachusetts Reading Association. My topic is how important personal reading as well as research reading is in the life of a fiction writer.”

Harry said, “You work harder than anyone I know. I think you need to aim for a lot more relaxation in your life.”

“Don’t waste your breath, Harry. Jessica nearly always has an endless list of chores, and she won’t rest until she’s crossed everything off, neat and tidy. And we won’t get a glimpse of her until that’s done.”

“Seth’s right. I would not be good company because my brain would be distracting me with tidbits of work-related thoughts until, to quiet them down, I would have to leave you, even midsnack. Best I head upstairs now and get my work done. I know you will both enjoy your food,” I said as I turned and walked toward the elevators.

Once in my room, I changed into casual clothes and sat down with my laptop in front of me and my telephone by my side. I looked up the phone number of a small bar back home in Cabot Cove. I wrote it on a piece of hotel stationery and pondered exactly how to proceed. When I had a plan in place, I dialed.

A man answered on the second ring. “Cove Tavern.”

“Hello, this is Jessica Fletcher. Is Mr. Boxley available?”

The hesitancy in his voice was palpable. “Er, gee, let me check. Just now we’re really crowded. Three deep at the bar; the tables are all full. Let me take a look around.” I heard the sound of the telephone being placed on the counter, and although I was listening carefully, the only sounds I could hear were a very few voices commenting on a baseball game that must have been on the television screen high above the bar. The tavern certainly didn’t sound nearly as busy as the man wanted me to believe. I guessed he was giving Jasper Boxley, our town’s most prominent loan shark, a chance to decide whether he would take my call.

I heard a scraping noise as if someone was picking up the phone, and then a voice said, “Mrs. Fletcher, please hold.”

Someone picked up an extension and said, “Thanks, I got it,” and I heard a click.

“This is Jazzy Boxley. Is that really you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes, it is. How are you, Mr. Boxley?” I said cordially.

“I’m fine. But as I recall, on a particular day some time ago, you came to find me here at the tavern and requested information, which I willingly gave, and at that time we agreed we would have no future contact.” He sounded as though he were chastising a six-year-old.

“Well, as I recall, you thought there would be no further reason for us to be in touch, but as it happens, I have a reason,” I said.

“From the gossip I’ve heard around town, you and Dr. Hazlitt are taking a vacation somewhere to the south—Boston, I believe. What have you come across in Boston that could possibly give you a reason to call me?” Jazzy sounded genuinely curious.

“It’s not a what, it’s a who,” I said. “I need to get in touch with a man who is in a line of work similar to yours, and I do not want to ask any of the few people I know here in Boston to put me in touch. Plus, you would be able to tell him quite honestly that I once had a conversation with you similar to the one I wish to have with him, and afterward there were absolutely no repercussions, whether from me or from law enforcement. It was as though our meeting never happened. I believe he would appreciate your assurance.”

Jazzy had clearly decided there was a touch of humor in the situation. In what I presumed he thought was a fancy tone of voice, he asked, “And please tell me, madam, who might this esteemed gentleman be?”

“His name is Paddy Doyle—” I got no further.

“Paddy Doyle!” Jazzy exclaimed. “Mrs. Fletcher, you travel in some rarefied circles, but Paddy Doyle may be a bridge too far, even for you.”

“I agree, and that is why I hoped you would be kind enough to give me a reference.” I did my best to sound congenial and optimistic.

The phone was so silent that for a minute I thought perhaps we’d been disconnected, so I said, “Are you still there, Mr. Boxley?”

“Yes, I’m here. I needed a moment to consider. Perhaps if you explain the nature of your interest in anything connected with Paddy’s business, it might help me make a decision.” He sounded as if he was going to need a lot of convincing, and I was beginning to fear that I might have to find Paddy Doyle on my own. Unless I involved Harry or Cookie, and that was exactly what I was trying to avoid.

I decided to try tugging at whatever sympathy gene Jazzy might have. “It is simply that a sweet young woman I know got involved with a gambler, and he, unfortunately, managed to get himself killed. I don’t suspect Mr. Doyle of any wrongdoing. I simply want to know if he could point me in the direction of anyone who might have wished to do the victim harm. I would not get involved except that the young woman, a lovely elementary schoolteacher, is considered by the police to be the prime suspect, and I want to nip the investigation in the bud by offering other suspects, innocent though they may be.”

“And Paddy Doyle should help you because…”

“Well, for one reason, having him as an ally would probably prevent me from telling the police investigators that I witnessed him having a hard-hitting conversation with the victim less than twenty-four hours before he was murdered.”

“I see you’re not above a little blackmail, Mrs. Fletcher. You know threats like that could come back to bite you,” Jazzy said.

“I wish you could meet the young schoolteacher who is in jeopardy. Saving her from false imprisonment is certainly worth any trouble that might come my way,” I said firmly.

“All right, you’ve convinced me, but I don’t know that Paddy Doyle will be as impressed as I am when you plead your case. May I ask the name of the woman you’re fighting for so convincingly?”

I wavered, and then realized that if I was given the opportunity to speak with Paddy Doyle, he would know instantly that the person I was concerned about was Aileen. “Her name is Aileen Davis and she teaches fourth grade, and it may help for Mr. Doyle to know that she is a lifelong resident of Southie.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m willing to do, Mrs. Fletcher.” Jazzy sounded more resigned than enthusiastic, but I would take his help any way I could get it. “If you give me your cell phone number, I’ll pass it along to Paddy and relay your request. If he calls, he calls, and if he doesn’t, well, that’s not on me.”

“I understand perfectly.” I rattled off my phone number. “Also, you may tell him I am staying at the Revere Boston Common Hotel so Mr. Doyle will know that if he wishes to meet, I am already in Boston and can be available at his convenience. I want you to know that I am extremely grateful for your help.”

“That’s good to hear, but try not to need my help again. I have to say you’re the most persistent person I’ve ever met. Anyone else I tell to go away and never come back does what I ask. But you…” I could almost see Jazzy shaking his head.

“I will try not to make a habit of bothering you,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster.

In response, Jazzy actually laughed as he hung up the phone.

I curled up on the love seat and tucked my feet under the throw pillow that decorated the far corner. I would have preferred to have a definite meeting set up with Paddy Doyle, but I supposed I would have to be satisfied with the possibility of one. Of course it all depended on Jazzy Boxley’s disposition. Would he actually call Doyle on my behalf or toss my phone number in the nearest trash can? I thought about that for a few minutes and decided that if Jazzy didn’t want to make the call, he would have told me so. He was too bold a man to hide behind social courtesy.

Well, on that score there was nothing for me to do but wait, so I moved on to my next phone call asking for a favor.

I dialed Marshall Stryback and was happy when he, rather than voicemail, answered. “Jessica, are you still here in Boston? Perhaps we could schedule another tea before you leave for Cabot Cove.”

“As a matter of fact, I do believe I’ve forgotten to tell you that I am speaking at the Massachusetts Reading Association tomorrow morning,” I said.

“Now that is an unlucky turn of events. I wish I had been called upon to introduce you, rather than be one of their opening speakers, which I was yesterday. As always, they are an enthusiastic and welcoming crowd. You will enjoy them immensely, and of course, the membership will be delighted to meet you and hear your wisdom,” Marshall said.

“Well, since they convene annually, perhaps the next time both of us are invited to speak, we can ask to be in similar time slots,” I replied before getting to the purpose of my call. “Marshall, I actually called you because I need a favor.”

“Anything, Jessica, anything at all. You name it, and I will move heaven and earth to provide it,” Marshall said with his usual sincerity.

“I know that the library has a genial relationship with Boston Allbranch…” I began, and then paused to give him time to answer in the affirmative. If the conversation started with agreement, I was hoping it would end with Marshall saying he would help me.

“Yes, we do. In fact, they’ve been one of our most ardent supporters. They’ve contributed to the library’s general fund each year for decades, and they often pitch in to at least partially support many of our special projects. Do you have a project in mind for them? Or have you learned that the reading association is in need of funds? I may be able to talk to our liaison, Ward Dampier, on your behalf.” Marshall sounded extremely pleased that he could handle my request so easily.

I hurriedly disabused him of any such notion. “I appreciate your offer, but it is nothing like that. No money is involved. I merely need an introduction to a high-ranking person in Allbranch, and I believe the gentleman you mentioned, Mr. Dampier, would fill that role perfectly. What exactly is his title?”

“He’s a senior vice president and has been the financial lifeline to our library system since long before I assumed the directorship. Jessica, I have to ask—if you’re not seeking funds for a literary project, what earthly reason could you have for wanting to meet Ward? I mean, he is a decent person and quite socially acceptable…”

“Socially acceptable? Heavens, Marshall, I am not looking for a date for Saturday night. I merely have some questions about an employee who no longer works there. But believe me, Mr. Dampier will not feel constrained by any conflict of interest,” I said.

“Jessica, I may be a book person, but I do read the Boston Globe. Please tell me you’re not investigating the untimely death of that young investment adviser. How could I possibly ask Ward Dampier to meet with you to discuss what the police are now referring to as a murder?” Marshall was clearly aghast.

“Oh, please, give me some credit. You did say that while I am still in town, you would like us to enjoy another afternoon tea. Why not invite Mr. Dampier to join us? I promise I will take care of the rest, and it will be quite painless, for you and for him.”

“Well, it’s against my better judgment but…let me see what I can arrange. It may take a day or two…”

“Oh, thank you so much, Marshall. I promise to be extremely well behaved.”

“Jessica, I’ve never known you to be anything less than a perfect lady. It’s merely the topic that I find to be, shall I say, sordid. It is unbecoming of both the company and the location. Discussing murder at afternoon tea? It is simply unthinkable.”

“I can promise that if the word ‘murder’ is spoken, it will not be by me. You have my word. And thank you so much for your help. Oh, I have to go; someone is at my door.”

I slipped into my shoes, and when I opened the door to the hallway, my favorite bellman, Mike, was standing there holding a tray covered with a linen cloth. “Hi, Mrs. Fletcher, this isn’t technically room service, but Dr. Hazlitt and his friend ordered a variety of fruit, cheese, and some small pastries. Turned out they ordered more than they could eat. And since you were working up here, they asked me to bring up a plate.”

“How nice! Please come in, Mike. You can set the tray right on the desk.”

“So, is it true what they said, Mrs. Fletcher? Are you writing an important speech?” Mike asked.

“Well, I hope it will be important to the people who hear it,” I said.

“I am sure you’ll do a great job. When you’re finished, you can just leave the tray outside your door. Will there be anything else?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t realize that I was beginning to feel the need for a nibble.” I removed the cloth from the tray and looked at the array before me. “And here it is, a perfect selection of snacks.” I would have to remember to thank Seth.

“Mike, wait one minute.” I got my purse from the end table and gave him a tip. “Thanks for bringing this up for me.”

“For you, anything, Mrs. Fletcher. Well, have a good evening.” And Mike gave me his usual two-finger salute.

I sat down at the desk and feasted on apple slices, grapes, some white cheddar wedges, and a small square of yellow Swiss cheese. When I had finished, I realized I had one more phone call to make.

I hit Mahmood’s name on my phone so that I could arrange for a ride to the reading association’s convention. I was careful to tell him that I did not have definite plans for the rest of the day but might need his services.

“Ah, will we have more adventures, Mrs. Fletcher? Do you plan on visiting the police again? And what about the young man who we saw at your friend’s house? Perhaps if we see him again, we should follow him. That green car with the dented fender would be easy to tail. Isn’t that what it is called on the television?”

“Mahmood, I am afraid you may be watching far too much TV. Your imagination has run wild. When I said I had not yet made plans for tomorrow, I didn’t mean anything more than social plans.”

“Sure, sure, I understand. Still, I keep a baseball bat under the front seat of my cab, so you do not have to worry, you are safe with me. Good night, Mrs. Fletcher.”

I clicked off my phone and leaned back in the desk chair, glad that Seth and Harry were not with me. I could just hear them teasing, “Social plans? Oh, is that what they call murder investigations these days?”

Chapter Seventeen

At breakfast the next morning, Seth surprised me by saying that he wanted to go along with me to the Massachusetts Reading Association.

“Really? It was so nice of you to come to my library presentation, but are you sure you want to sit through another one of my speeches?” I asked as we sipped our coffee and waited for our breakfasts to be served.

“I have an ulterior motive. Once your commitment to the association is fulfilled, I wouldn’t be surprised if, rather than playing tourist for the afternoon, you decide to go snooping. You did mention that you were hoping to visit the Cantrell family.”

“That’s certainly true, although I haven’t made a definite plan as yet. It’s more something that I think would be worth doing.” I put my napkin in my lap as the waitress placed my breakfast plate of poached eggs and sliced tomato on the table and then served Seth his omelet. She asked if she could bring us anything else, but neither of us required anything, so she smiled and left us to eat.

Apparently Seth was not done talking about my “penchant for nosiness.” He said, “If you do decide to make a visit to Victor’s family, I’m sure that will involve Aileen in some way. To be honest, Jess, after these past few days, well, I’m starting to feel like I am her primary care physician. It is my medical opinion that it wouldn’t hurt for me to take a look at her before you so much as ask her how you could meet whichever family members you think might have information that would be useful in getting Lieutenant Starkey’s eyes off Aileen and onto, well, anyone else.”

I looked around to make sure no one was sitting nearby, then told Seth about Lucas Cantrell. “This particular cousin accused Victor of stealing an inheritance that rightfully should have been divided among three of them,” I said.

“And then, out of anger, he killed Victor?”

“Not necessarily, although that is conceivable. What I do think is that Lucas is a possible suspect and that he is someone that the lieutenant should be looking at rather than Aileen, who, because she had the misfortune of discovering the body, was bumped up to the top of the suspect list without much consideration of anyone else.”

“Jess, given the emotional and mental condition Aileen was in when she managed to find her way into Gilhooley’s looking for her father, I agree with you that she could not possibly have murdered anyone on purpose. Aileen is the type of person who takes responsibility for her actions, be they good or bad. She would have confessed immediately and tried to make amends.” Seth was insistent.

“Well, thank you, Dr. Freud,” I said.

Seth, in turn, grumbled, “Very funny.”

“Oh, Seth, you know I am only teasing,” I said as I pushed my plate to the center of the table to indicate I was finished eating. “As it happens, I agree wholeheartedly with your assessment of Aileen’s personality. She is highly ethical and would always acknowledge her part in anything, even if it would damage her own well-being. That is why I am so sure she didn’t have anything to do with Victor’s death. But I do take your advice seriously. Yes, please come with me to the reading association, and after that, we will go to Cookie’s house and see how my visit to the Cantrell family can be arranged.”

“Ah, common sense at last. And to be clear, if I say Aileen is not up to going with you, what will your response be?” Seth asked.

“I will abide by your decision, but it remains to be seen if Aileen will listen to you.” I looked at my watch. “Oh dear, Mahmood will be here to drive us to the convention in less than an hour. I better get ready.”

Seth and I agreed that we would meet in the lobby in forty-five minutes. I hurried to my room. Last night I had decided that today I would wear my navy blue suit and a pale blue blouse, both of which I had hung on the outside of my closet door before I went down to breakfast. I dressed quickly and then I made sure the speech notes I had assembled in my folder were in the proper order.

Once I was ready for the reading association presentation, I took a moment to call Cookie, who, when he answered the phone, sounded more cheerful than he had since the evening Aileen had straggled into Gilhooley’s covered in blood.

“Hey, Mrs. Fletcher, how are you this morning?”

“Truthfully, I am somewhat rushed because I have to make a presentation to a readers group quite soon, but I was wondering if afterward, Seth Hazlitt and I could stop by to speak with Aileen for a short while.”

“That would make her day. I know she enjoys your company, and Doc Hazlitt has been so kind to her I’m sure she’d like to see him again. To be honest, we’re both getting a little stir-crazy just hanging out here trying to make small talk—you know, avoid the major issue. Company might be just the ticket we need to feel normal again.” Cookie laughed. “Is Harry coming with you?”

“No. Harry will be busy elsewhere. I think it is best if I explain to you exactly what I have in mind and why Seth is coming with me.”

When I described my plan to Cookie, he wasn’t the least bit bothered by it, which was a great relief to me.

“Mrs. Fletcher, if Aileen wants to go along with you, and Doc Hazlitt says it’s fine, then I would have no objection. If Aileen isn’t up to it, well, I’ll be happy to go instead.”

“Then I will need two favors. First, do you think you could find out for me where Victor’s family members are gathering?”

“Favor number one is already done. Aileen received a text this morning. The Cantrells will be gathering at the home of an aunt, Marguerite Lawson. She’s Victor’s aunt on his mother’s side, and they’ll be receiving condolence calls from one thirty to four thirty this afternoon and tomorrow afternoon. Let’s see if favor number two can be done so easily.”

“If it wouldn’t be too inconvenient, I thought you might order two dozen cannoli from Scully’s so that I have something to offer when I call on the Cantrell family. And naturally, I will be happy to cover the cost.”

“Oh, forget the cost, Mrs. Fletcher. For me, buying cannoli is a genuine pleasure. Don’t be surprised if I bring a few extra home for us to snack on,” Cookie said.

“If you do, I will be quite pleased and I am sure Seth will be too.”

After we said our good-byes, I hurried to meet Seth and to wait for Mahmood to arrive.

* * *

Seth was sitting in a plush chair reading the Boston Globe when I entered the lobby. He folded the paper and stood up. “Dan Andrews has every reason to be proud of the Gazette,” he said as he dropped the newspaper on a nearby table. “It’s a lot more interesting than the Globe.”

“Let’s walk outside to wait for Mahmood. Looks like another beautiful day. I’m hoping to get weather like this on a day when we have nothing to do. I’d like to take one of the hotel bicycles and ride around Boston Common.”

“I love that idea. When we get back to the hotel, let’s stop at the front desk to reserve two bicycles,” I said.

“Pending the weather, let’s plan to do that tomorrow. Just for an hour, mind you. I don’t ride all over Cabot Cove on a bicycle the way you do. I’m a little out of practice.” Seth was beginning to realize he’d made a spontaneous commitment he might not wish to keep.

“Well,” I said, trying to remove any pressure, “let’s see what the weather is like tomorrow. We are still here for a few more days. I am sure we’ll find some time to take a ride. Look.” I pointed to a taxi that had just turned onto Stuart Street. “There is Mahmood.”

As we climbed into the passenger seats, Mahmood said, “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher, how nice that you have an escort to your event today. And how are you this morning, Doctor?”

Seth answered that he was enjoying this springlike weather and that he hoped to do some bike riding on Boston Common before we flew home to Cabot Cove.

“Ah, I know the perfect route. You wish to go to the Common, not to the Public Garden, am I right?” Mahmood asked.

“That’s correct,” I said. “We had a lovely walk through the Public Garden when we first arrived.”

“In that case, when you leave the hotel, go up and cross Boylston Street, then cross Charles Street. Obey the traffic lights, because it is a busy intersection, and crossing in any direction can be very dangerous.”

I could not resist saying, “Spoken like a man who drives around Boston for a living.”

“And I am proud to do so,” Mahmood replied. “Now tell me, where is this place that is not a library but they have invited you to talk about reading?”

I gave him the name of the hotel where the Massachusetts Reading Association was holding their conference.

“I know it. Very nearby. In fact, you could have taken your bicycles and gotten there just as quick as we will.” Mahmood and I both laughed, but I noticed Seth merely managed a half smile. I suspected he was beginning to be sorry he’d ever brought up the idea of riding bicycles.

Mahmood was correct—our trip to the reading association was quite a short one. Before we got out of the taxi, I told him we would telephone him when we were ready to leave and that we would probably ask him to remain on call for the rest of the day.

“Ah, that is what a driver likes to hear. His favorite customer is planning more adventures. I will be at your service,” Mahmood said as Seth and I got out of the cab.

As soon as we entered the hotel, I was happy to see a long table off to the right set beneath a banner that read Massachusetts Reading Association* Welcome!

I stepped up to the table, and a dark-haired young woman asked if she could help me; then suddenly she stood and reached out to shake my hand. “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, so sorry. For a moment I didn’t recognize you. It’s been such a busy morning.”

I glanced at her name tag. “Oh, Barbara, that is no problem. One of the advantages of being a writer is that we are not often in the public eye, so we don’t have that ‘everywhere you go, someone wants an autograph’ situation that movie stars and pop singers have.” I smiled and reached to shake her hand.

Barbara took a deep breath and seemed to relax as she exhaled. “You are very kind. And this gentleman is?”

I introduced Seth as my good friend, Dr. Hazlitt, and I think Barbara was relieved that he wasn’t another writer she should have recognized. She came around the table and said, “Right this way. Everyone is dying to meet you.”

I was glad that she didn’t hear Seth when he leaned in and whispered to me, “More dead bodies? Isn’t one per trip enough?”

“Oh, Seth, that isn’t funny.” I waved my hand in a signal I hoped he recognized as meaning “no more dead body jokes.”

Barbara led us to a small room off to the side of the main meeting room, which, by the sound of it, was in full convention mode. There she introduced us to the officers and board members of the organization, many of whom expressed their deep appreciation for my agreeing to speak at the convention, while I thanked them for the invitation and said that my comments today would be in strong support of their mission to improve the degree of excellence in literacy throughout the state of Massachusetts.

The last person Barbara introduced was the gentleman who would introduce me to the larger group. His name was Isaac Johnson, and he was wearing a bow tie, which reminded me of Marshall Stryback. I had to wonder if all Bostonians who were proponents of literacy and literature had a bow tie or two tucked away in their wardrobes.

When Isaac and I took the stage, the audience stopped wandering around and chatting. Everyone immediately took their seats and looked at the stage attentively. I knew at that moment this would be a successful event.

Issac’s introduction was succinct but accurate, and once I had complimented the group on their work, I spent the next twenty minutes talking about how we writers could support their mission by keeping our books and stories interesting and exciting and as accurate as we could. After a lively question-and-answer session, Isaac announced we had gone over our allotted time, and he asked the audience to join him in thanking me for my presentation.

The applause was so loud and long that I could feel myself blushing as we walked off the stage.

“Mrs. Fletcher, that was an exceptional presentation. So down-to-earth yet so meaningful.” Isaac shook my hand with such spirit that I was afraid I would pop a ligament.

Then he escorted me to the smaller room where Barbara and Seth were waiting, along with many of the people whom I’d met there earlier. I gratefully accepted a glass of iced tea from Barbara and spent the next few minutes thanking everyone who came over to say how much they enjoyed my comments. Soon enough, the word spread that the next presentation was about to begin, so people began to say good-bye. Certain that we would be free to leave soon, I asked Seth to call Mahmood.

Within a few minutes, Barbara and Isaac walked us to the main entrance of the hotel. I had barely finished thanking them both for their courtesy and wishing the group much success in their future projects when Seth pointed and said, “Our cab is here.”

We settled into the back of Mahmood’s taxi, and when I gave him Cookie’s address as our next stop, Mahmood said, “Doctor, it is good that you are with Mrs. Fletcher. She is going to that house where there are strange comings and goings.”

Seth looked at me with raised eyebrows, and I said, “Don’t ask.”

I should have known the topic would come up again. As soon as Mahmood pulled up in front of Cookie’s triple-decker, he said, “I will stay parked right here so that you will be safe. Don’t forget I have my baseball bat.”

When he leaned down to reach under his seat, I quickly said, “The bat will not be necessary, Mahmood.”

“Are you sure, Mrs. Fletcher? Maybe the strange man in the green Chevy shows up again,” he said. “It is always good to be prepared.”

“Mahmood, I appreciate your wanting to protect us, but believe me, at this house, there is nothing to fear. The man in the green car was a friend of a friend who stopped by to help out on a little family matter. I would, however, like you to stay here, as I will be needing another ride shortly.”

Cookie’s front door opened, and we watched as Cookie pushed a tall, very thin man with a longish ponytail out onto the porch. “It’s not like I haven’t told you before—stay away from my daughter.” Then he slammed the door shut.

The man stood on the porch and raised his fist, shaking it fiercely at the door as he shouted, “That ain’t up to you, old man!”

Then he stomped down the steps to the street, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. He walked right past our taxi muttering to himself and disappeared around the corner.

All of which led Mahmood to say, “You see now what I mean, Mrs. Fletcher? You can never tell when a baseball bat will come in handy.”

Chapter Eighteen

Of course, I knew we were perfectly safe. I was fairly certain that, in his fury, the man had never even noticed us, but I thought it wisest not to say so. Instead I reminded Mahmood that I would like him to stay on this block so that he could drive me to my next stop, and that Seth or I would be sure to let him know immediately if our plans changed.

As we climbed the stairs to Cookie’s porch, Seth said, “I wonder what Cookie’s tussle with Mr. Ponytail was all about.”

“I have an idea, so if Cookie doesn’t tell us, I will fill you in later,” I said as I pressed the doorbell.

The door swung open with lightning speed, and there stood Cookie holding…a baseball bat.

“Good Lord,” Seth said, “does everyone in Boston own a baseball bat to be wielded as a weapon whenever needed? I can assure you we come in peace.”

Cookie had the good grace to look embarrassed. He leaned the bat against the foyer wall and said, “Come on in. I’m sorry you had to see that. There’s this possessive guy Aileen dated a few times. He figured out she’s staying here and thinks he can stroll back into her life now that Victor is gone. He came banging on the door and calling her name. When I opened the door to tell him to leave, he pushed his way inside. I managed to push him out, but when you rang the doorbell so soon after he left—well, I’m sorry about the bat.”

“Yes, we saw him leave. Would the man’s name be Matt Van Houten?” I asked.

“How on earth do you know…? Oh, it doesn’t matter, come on in. Let’s go back to the kitchen. I have cannoli as requested.” Cookie gave me a broad wink. Then he yelled, “Aileen, Mrs. Fletcher and Doc Hazlitt are here.”

We heard a door open and close, and the next thing I knew, Aileen was standing in front of us with outstretched arms and gave first me and then Seth a big hug. We sat around the kitchen table, which already had a plate of cannoli in the center. Cookie offered tea and coffee and said, “I can always whip up a couple of spritzers if you want. I am a bartender and a pretty good one, if I do say so myself.”

Seth asked for coffee while I opted for water. “After I spend some time speaking to a crowd as I did earlier with the Massachusetts Reading Association, I am parched for quite a few hours.”

“And how did that go?” Aileen asked as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

I thought that would be a relaxing subject for a few minutes before we got down to what I wanted to know more about, so we had a brief conversation about my presentation, and then I changed the topic to Matt Van Houten.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Fletcher. I didn’t realize you were sitting right outside in that cab, but the guy gets under my skin,” Cookie said. “Him and Aileen went on a few dates, and in a flash he began acting like he owned her.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“In every way. One day he called and asked if she wanted to go to dinner that night, but since it was my night off from work, Aileen had already made plans to come here for some of my famous codfish stew. So that’s what she told him. Can you believe he followed her here? When we went outside to have our dessert on the front porch, Aileen spotted him sitting in his car about three houses down. I wanted to straighten him right out, but Aileen said she’d handle it, didn’t you, sweetie?” Cookie turned the story over to his daughter.

“I said I would, and I did try.” Aileen pursed her lips and then continued. “I told him I didn’t want to see him again, and really, that’s all you have to say to most men, but not Matt.

“First, I noticed he would ‘happen’ to be in the supermarket where I shop; then he began standing around outside the school at dismissal, and sometimes he would even yell things at me, until the principal finally called the police and had them warn him away.”

Seth said, “That sure sounds like stalking to me.”

Cookie agreed. “I told her to get a restraining order, but by then, Aileen had met Victor, and, well…”

“I thought if Matt saw I was dating someone else, he would fade off into the sunset,” Aileen said, “but I was wrong.”

I leaned across the table and said, “Aileen, think carefully. When was the last time you noticed Matt following you or popping up in front of you?”

Aileen slued her eyes sideways and then toward the ceiling. It took a few minutes until she said, “I remember now. Victor and I were coming out of a movie theater about two weeks ago, and I saw Matt leaning against a car across the street, but as soon as I caught his eye, he turned and walked away quickly.”

“And, as far as you know, did Matt and Victor ever have a confrontation of any kind?” I asked.

Aileen looked shocked. “Oh, you don’t think that Matt…? I mean, he is obsessive, but I can’t imagine…”

I reached across the table and patted her hand. “I don’t think anything concrete. All I am looking at are possibilities, and given what I witnessed today and from what you have told us—well, Matt is certainly one, but surely not the only one.” I did not go any further.

While munching on cannoli, Seth casually asked Aileen a question or two about how she was sleeping and how she was feeling generally; then he gave me a slight nod, and I moved on to my next topic: Cousin Lucas.

“Aileen, I understand that you were invited to make a condolence call on Victor’s family at his aunt’s home. Is that correct?”

Aileen shot Cookie a look that made him wince; then she said, “I wouldn’t call it an invitation. It’s more like a notification. Here, I’ll show you.” She pulled her cell phone from her shirt pocket and passed it to me.

As I looked at what was clearly an announcement rather than an invitation, I wondered if her annoyance at the lack of a personal note of any kind would prevent her from coming to the Lawsons’ home with me this afternoon. I needn’t have worried.

“Mrs. Fletcher, my dad told me that you were interested in making a condolence call. He said you even asked him to get cannoli from Scully’s so you would have an appropriate gift to bring to Victor’s mother. While that’s very kind of you, I’d like to know exactly what your ulterior motive might be.”

Seth nearly choked on the sip of coffee he’d just taken, while Cookie said sharply, “Aileen, where are your manners? Mrs. Fletcher is here to help.”

Aileen looked slightly abashed. “I’m sorry, and as much as I don’t want to face anyone in Victor’s family, I would be willing to accompany you if I was sure it might move us a step closer toward finding out what happened to Victor.”

I sighed and took a long drink of water. “Okay, let me explain exactly what I am trying to do. Since you discovered Victor on the floor of his apartment, and rather than dialing 911, you ran to your father for help—”

“Because I was frightened and confused,” Aileen said, and for a moment, she looked as helpless as she did when she came through the door of Gilhooley’s the night Victor died. Then she pulled herself together. “What has that got to do with visiting Victor’s family?”

“We all saw how distraught you were after finding Victor that way. But the police are always a bit more skeptical, and so you are front and center in their minds until someone else comes along. I would like to introduce Lieutenant Starkey to as many ‘someone elses’ as I can.”

“And you think one of Victor’s relatives might have…might be responsible?” Aileen looked incredulous.

Without directly answering, I said, “Tell me whatever you recall about Victor’s argument with his cousin Lucas about the inheritance from their grandmother.”

“It seems that Victor’s grandmother—that is, his father’s mother—opened a small insurance policy years ago when the first of her sons got married. She specified that the proceeds of the policy were to be left to any and all grandchildren at the time of her death. As it turns out, there are only three heirs: Victor, Lucas, and Lucas’s sister Kaitlin. Apparently, Victor knew about the policy and Lucas did not.

“As you can imagine,” Aileen continued, “policies like that have pretty much gone out of fashion. Most insurance companies require beneficiaries to be named by the insured. To make it more complicated, the insurance company Victor’s grandmother used was a tiny family-owned firm, which was eventually taken over by a larger establishment, and then, over time, that establishment was bought out by a major insurance company. As I said, I can’t imagine that there are very many of these kinds of policies still around.

“In any event, the battle between Lucas and Victor got quite heated, and from what I understood, Victor had signed an affidavit saying he was the only grandchild and he got the entire inheritance.”

I sighed. This was more complicated than I’d expected. “Aileen, do you have any idea how much money was involved?”

Aileen shook her head. “I’m honestly not sure. When I asked Victor about it after the argument, he said it was mere pennies, but he didn’t give me an exact number or even a rough number. By that time, his grandmother had been dead for quite some time, and I think he was annoyed at being found out after he was sure he’d gotten away with it. Knowing what I know now, I’m sure the money was gone almost as soon as he touched it.”

I was still confused on one point. “I find it curious that when the grandmother died, Victor knew of the policy and Lucas did not. Do you know how Lucas eventually found out about it?”

“Well, you have to remember that I met Victor after Grandma Lily had died. My impression is that no one thought about it, or at least spoke about it while they were in mourning. Grandma Lily was apparently a vibrant, active woman who appeared to be in robust health, and to the entire family’s shock, she died quite suddenly.”

“Ayuh, I’ve seen that happen more times than I can count,” Seth said, and I certainly knew that was true.

Aileen continued. “Naturally, Lucas’s sister Kaitlin flew here for the funeral, then went home to California. She was so upset I doubt she ever thought about the insurance policy. But it crossed her mind at some point, because the next time she and her husband came home for a visit, she asked Lucas if he had done anything about the insurance policy Grandma Lily had left for the two of them and Victor.

“Lucas either didn’t remember there was such a policy or had never heard of it, but Kaitlin insisted that Grandma Lily had told her all about it, and she even remembered the insurance company’s name.” Aileen took a sip of her coffee.

“In any event, Lucas wasn’t that interested and said that if such a policy existed, their parents would have found it when they cleaned out Grandma Lily’s house. Kaitlin kept at, and perhaps to placate her, Lucas said he would look into it.”

I nodded and said, “That’s when he found that there had been a policy and the proceeds had been claimed.”

Aileen said, “Exactly. With the information Kaitlin recalled, Lucas was able to track the policy to the current insurer, only to find out that Victor had taken it all. I give Lucas credit. He was very decent about it. Rather than cause a family scandal, Lucas took Victor aside and offered to settle peacefully and without prosecution if he would give him and Kaitlin their rightful share.

“I’m sure he was shocked when Victor told him it was too late, the money was all gone. Lucas threatened to go to the police. Victor told him he could do whatever he wanted to, but the results would be the same because Victor didn’t have the money. That was the argument I overheard.” Aileen leaned forward and crossed her hands on the table. “I suppose I should have ended it with Victor right then and there. If that’s how he treated his cousins…”

Cookie stood, stepped over to his daughter, and bent down to give her a gentle hug. “It isn’t always easy to decide when to stay or when to go.”

Aileen started to cry softly, then wiped her eyes and kissed Cookie on the cheek. “You are the best dad ever. Anyway, the upshot of it all was that Lucas went to the family, and Victor’s dad paid Lucas and Kaitlin what should have been their share of the policy. Both Victor’s father and their father gathered the three cousins and told them in no uncertain terms that the issue was resolved. But I know Lucas wanted revenge. He was frustrated that his father and Victor’s father interfered. He made it clear that he was disappointed that Victor hadn’t been punished. From that day forward, any family gatherings Victor and I attended were very strained. It got so that I suggested we stay away for a while, but Victor was bold that way. He relished watching Lucas steam.”

I still had a few questions. “I know you overheard Lucas fighting with Victor, but how do you know the background? For example, how did you learn that Lily bought the insurance policy before any of her grandchildren were born? And why are you sure that Lucas learned about the policy from Kaitlin?”

“I could barely pry the basics out of Victor. I called Kaitlin, and she told me the whole long story. That was the first time I realized Victor had a real problem with money, but it certainly wasn’t the last.” Aileen frowned.

I thanked her for sharing such a painful story with us and then asked if she thought she would be able to make a condolence call on the family with me. “I know it will be difficult, but I think meeting the family will help us get a better picture of Victor and of anyone who might have wished to do him harm.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it, Mrs. Fletcher. You said earlier that you’re looking for suspects to take the pressure off me. How can I not help you do that? Give me a couple of minutes to change into something appropriate, and a-sleuthing we will go.” Aileen giggled, and not for the first time, I wondered if she was taking this seriously. Maybe she was just making fun of me.

After she left the room, Seth said, “Aileen seems to be doing well, but if you detect the least bit of discomfort, you are to get her out of there immediately.”

“Yes, Dr. Hazlitt,” I said, partly teasing but more to show that I understood his concern.

Cookie offered to drive us, but I had a better idea. “Thank you, but why don’t you and Seth stay here? Mahmood is waiting outside, and I am sure we won’t be gone long. By any chance do you play chess?”

Cookie clapped his hands and turned to Seth. “Chess, checkers, cards, you name it, Doc, and I will play it.”

By the time Aileen and I left with our large box of cannoli, Cookie had cleaned off the kitchen table and set up a chessboard. By the look on both their faces, I was sure that within minutes, they wouldn’t even know we were gone.

When he saw us coming down the stairs, Mahmood jumped out of his taxi and ran to the curb to open the door for us. “Ah, two beautiful ladies. I hope we are going someplace fun.”

“Unfortunately, we are making a condolence call on the family of a young friend,” I said as I gave him the address.

“I know right where that is.” Mahmood started the taxi’s engine and pulled away.

Aileen didn’t say a word during the ride, not until Mahmood stopped in front of the Lawson house. Then she turned to me and said, “I’m not sure if I can…”

“You’ve come this far. I promise we won’t be long. All you have to do is introduce me as your aunt Jessica. Then point out Lucas to me. While you are talking to the family and other guests, I will approach Lucas on my own. And then we can leave.”

“That doesn’t sound too horrible. Okay, I’m ready.”

I gave Mahmood explicit instructions, and I had to laugh when he said, “You are an interesting woman, Mrs. Fletcher. Do not worry, I will keep my phone at the ready.”

Chapter Nineteen

There was a discreet note on the front door telling visitors the door was unlocked and to please enter. There were a few people milling around the foyer, and one young lady came directly to us. She grabbed Aileen by both hands and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Aileen, I’m so glad you’re here. Frankly, I didn’t know if you would…feel up to attending. How terrible this has been for you.”

“Aw, Kaitlin, this has been terrible for all of us. But my aunt Jessica offered to come with me.” Aileen turned and introduced me. Kaitlin seemed very sweet, but I was far more interested in meeting her brother.

We went through to the living room, and as soon as we entered, a woman on the couch stood and extended her hand in greeting. “I am Marguerite Lawson. Our family appreciates your kindness.”

I was glad to have someone to hand the box of cannoli to before I was introduced to Victor’s parents. Mrs. Lawson hugged Aileen, who introduced me again as her aunt.

“Jessica—may I call you Jessica?” Marguerite said and, without stopping to hear an answer, continued on. “We are delighted to meet another member of Aileen’s family. Her father is such a charming man. Are you his sister? No matter, come meet my sister.”

She steered us to a love seat between a baby grand piano and the couch, where Victor’s parents were sitting. “Roberta, isn’t this nice? Aileen brought her aunt Jessica to meet you.”

Mrs. Cantrell’s eyes were bloodshot and swollen from crying, and she struggled to speak, as though she was going to begin crying anew, but she offered her cheek to Aileen, who gave her what I thought was a rather dutiful kiss. Then she extended a hand to me. I shook it and murmured words of sorrow.

Her husband, who looked as though he hadn’t slept since he heard about Victor’s death, gave us a vague hello and then stared across the room at a fireplace that held a colorful arrangement of roses and baby’s breath on the hearth.

Marguerite then steered us away from the Cantrells and led us through an archway into the dining room, where several people were drinking wine or enjoying canapés. “Please help yourselves to some refreshments. I don’t like to leave my sister alone at a time like this.” And she scuttled back to the living room.

“Victor’s parents. They both look so…so…oh, I can’t even find the words,” Aileen whispered.

“I know this is grim for you,” I murmured, “but we won’t stay too long. There is a coffee urn and a teapot on the sideboard. Would you like something?” But Aileen was paying no attention to me. Instead, she was staring through glass doors that led from the dining room to a slate-floored patio in the backyard. Then she leaned in and whispered, “Mrs. Fletcher, look through the doors. The younger man with the longish hair, wearing the charcoal gray suit and black-and-white-striped tie, is Lucas Cantrell. Do you want me to introduce you?”

“Not at all. What I want you to do is get yourself a nice cup of tea and one or two of the canapés on that silver tray. They look like avocado and cheese to me. You can let me know if you like them after I come back from speaking with Lucas.”

Aileen gave me a blank stare until I waved her away with my hand, saying, “Run along.”

The last thing I wanted was for Lucas Cantrell to see us together before I had a chance to talk to him. Next, I took out my cell phone, tapped the text icon, and entered a quick message but didn’t hit Send. Then I walked out onto the patio. Lucas was talking to a middle-aged couple, and from what I could gather, he did not know them well. Perfect.

I stepped closer, and as the woman was saying, “It came as such a shock to us all,” I interrupted.

“Excuse me, but your voice is so familiar. Are you a member of Roberta’s book club?” I asked with all innocence, knowing that later on when I told Seth the story, he would ask if I had my fingers crossed behind my back.

“Why, no,” she answered. “Tom and I lived next door to Roberta and Mario for several years when Victor was a teenager. So sad.”

“Oh, I see, and is this your son?” I smiled at Lucas, who blanched but then recovered quickly and stuck out his hand to shake mine.

“Hello, my name is Lucas Cantrell. I am, er, was Victor’s cousin, and I gather you’re a member of Aunt Roberta’s book club?”

“Oh, books are my specialty. I was so sorry to hear about Victor. How untimely. And what a shock. I suppose you were at home when you got the dreaded call.” I hoped that my chatter would keep him talking.

“Actually, no. I’m an accountant. I own a small audit firm, so I was in Philadelphia meeting with a new client, Chadburn Technical Services.”

He said the name of the company with pride in his voice, so I smiled and said, “My, that is impressive,” which I hoped would lead him to say more, and it did.

“I had scheduled a four-day stay so that I could get to know the company officers, examine the books to be sure everything was up-to-date, and all that. Regrettably, the second day I was there my mother called and told me to come home because…well, you know why.” And Lucas waved his arm in a broad gesture as if trying to encompass all the sadness in the house.

I expressed my sympathy at the loss of his cousin and excused myself, saying I was parched and wanted to get a glass of water. As soon as I got inside, I saw Aileen standing in the living room talking to two women I didn’t know. As I walked by, I caught her eye and signaled her to follow along. Then I took my phone out, tapped to send the message I had written earlier, and headed to the foyer. I had just reached the archway when the front door opened and Kaitlin, who was still greeting guests, stepped forward. Mahmood stood in the doorway. He respectfully removed his cap and said, “Pardon me, miss, I am here to pick up Jessica Fletcher and her niece.”

Katlin invited him inside as she said, “Of course, I’ll find them for you.”

I strode across the foyer and said, “Here I am. Perhaps you could just find Aileen. She was in the living room when I saw her a few moments ago.”

Kaitlin and Aileen soon came through from the living room with their arms around each other. They hugged and promised to keep in touch, and then Mahmood opened the front door and escorted us to his taxi.

Once we were belted in our seats and he was behind the steering wheel, he said, “Before you even tell me where we are going next, I must know: Was I part of one of your spying missions?”

As I tried not to laugh, I said, “All I can tell you, Mahmood, is that there was someone in that house who I did not want to figure out that Aileen and I knew each other, much less that we had arrived together as aunt and niece. Once I spoke to him, it became vital to get us both out of the house promptly before he could connect the two of us in any way. You, sir, responded to my text and made that happen.”

Mahmood turned to look at us, his face radiant with pride, and said, “My wife, my Zara, does not believe some of the stories that I tell her about clients I drive. She will never believe this one.”

And he laughed long and loud before asking our destination, which was Cookie’s house.

On the way home, I asked Aileen how difficult it was for her to see Victor’s family, and she seemed to surprise herself when she answered, “I felt horrible for them, I truly did, but nothing will ever be as upsetting as finding Victor that way.”

Then she turned away and looked out the cab window for the rest of the ride home, clearly lost in thought.

I settled up with Mahmood and told him that I wasn’t sure when we would need him again, so he should feel free to go back on the radio frequency to pick up other fares, and we would call when we needed him again.

“Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. May I ask, is Dr. Hazlitt waiting for you in this house?”

When I said that Seth was indeed inside with Aileen’s father, Mahmood grinned. “Then I can comfortably leave, knowing you are in safe hands. The one other thing I am sure of is that my next passengers will not be as exciting as you are.”

Seth and Cookie were bent over a chessboard on the coffee table in the living room when we opened the front door. They both stood to greet us. Cookie put an arm around Aileen and said, “How is my brave little girl feeling?”

His concern was so touching. He sounded like a father whose daughter was on her two-wheeler without training wheels for the first time and had fallen after pedaling a few yards.

“I’m fine, Dad, really I am. After greeting the family, I hung out with friends of Victor’s who were also there, so it wasn’t as stressful as I feared, although seeing Victor’s parents so devastated…well, that was positively heartbreaking. Maybe a cannoli would cheer me up?”

Cookie smiled and said, “Doc, what do you think? Time for a cannoli break?”

Seth stood. “I thought you’d never ask.”

We all walked back to the kitchen, which I was starting to think of as my home away from home. It was rare that I felt so comfortable in anyone else’s kitchen, at least outside Cabot Cove.

Once we were sitting around the kitchen table sipping iced tea and Cookie had placed a cannoli in front of each of us, Seth said, “Don’t keep us in suspense, Jessica. Did you learn anything worth knowing when you and Aileen made your condolence call?”

“Well, I did get the information I wanted, but I am not sure it is of any use to us. In fact, I can’t even tell you it is actually true. I was able to speak to Lucas Cantrell, and he said that he was in Philadelphia on business when he received a telephone call from his mother telling him to come home immediately because Victor had had a tragic accident,” I said.

“So if he was three hundred or so miles away, I guess you have to cross him off your suspect list. Too bad,” Cookie said.

“Dad!” Aileen sounded shocked. “We don’t want anyone else to get into trouble just so the police stop looking at me!”

Cookie coughed to hide his laughter and said, “Of course not, but I like thinking there was someone else in the mix. And Lucas is a top contender.”

Seth said, “Let’s not be so hasty. A flight from Philly to Boston is, I’d say, an hour and a half each way. Allowing for trips to and from the airport, he’d have time to fly, kill Victor, and get back to Philadelphia in six to eight hours, total.”

“True,” I said, “but airplane tickets always leave a trail. Lucas did not strike me as a stupid man.”

“I’ve driven to Philly and back a dozen times. Without major traffic, like in the middle of the night, you could do a round trip in ten hours, easy. Of course, we’d have to add time for Lucas to do the deed.”

“Dad!” This time Aileen nearly screeched.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but whoever killed Victor put you directly in Lieutenant Starkey’s crosshairs, and I will point the finger at anyone I can find to protect you. In fact, we should call Starkey right now and see what Lucas tells him about Philadelphia.”

All the while, I had been thinking.

“Perhaps,” I said, “we can find out if Lucas’s alibi is true without involving the police at all. I have an idea. Will you all excuse me for a few moments?”

I walked out to the dining room, where I had left my purse, and retrieved my cell phone. Some time ago, a former student of mine, Albert Pellecchia, moved back to Cabot Cove from Philadelphia, and we had become quite good friends. It was a long shot, but still…

I tapped on Albert’s phone number and he answered on the second ring.

“Jessica, are you home? How was your trip to Boston?” I could almost see his broad smile beaming at me right through the phone.

“Actually, I am still in Boston but, Albert, I need a favor if you can manage it.”

“Anything for my favorite teacher,” Albert replied.

“This is a long shot. but I am wondering if you have any friends at a company called Chadburn Technical Services. I understand it is headquartered in Philadelphia.”

“As a matter of fact, Bruce Chadburn, the founder and president of the company, and I did business several times. Over the years, we even teamed up as golf partners at a number of charity golf outings. Do you need an introduction? I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

“The truth is, my request is far more delicate. Someone who may be guilty of wrongdoing here in Boston claims to have been in Philadelphia during the time in question. He is an audit accountant, newly contracted by Chadburn Technical Services, and says he spent a couple of days there, both in meetings and socializing with Chadburn executives, and only came home when his family called to tell him about his cousin’s murder. I don’t want to jeopardize his new contract with them by asking questions,” I said, “and besides, no one would have any reason to answer me.”

Albert said, “Jessica, another murder! Seth must be blowing a gasket right about now.”

“Surprisingly, he has taken quite a liking to the Boston Police Department’s prime suspect and her father. He has been a huge help in keeping the police at bay, but we are running out of time.” As I said it, I realized how true that was.

“So, if I have this right, you’re hoping that I can make a ‘How are you doing?’ call to Chadburn, make it seem social rather than inquisitive, and somehow find out if your suspect was in Philly when he says he was. Correct?” Albert asked.

“Exactly, although I haven’t come up with a way you can accomplish that without looking absurd or implying that Lucas is not to be trusted.” To me that was a major quandary.

Levelheaded as always, Albert asked me to explain the entire story to him and give him as much information as I could about Lucas Cantrell. He interrupted a few times and asked me to repeat dates and times while he took notes. At last, he said, “Jessica, don’t worry. I promise you this will not be a problem. I’ll use a ‘friend of a friend’ scenario. As in, my friend—that’s you—has a friend—that’s Lucas—who’s very excited about doing an auditing project for Chadburn. Because there was a family emergency and he had to leave earlier than planned, he’s nervous about the impression he made.”

“And you think that will get the answers I need?” I was skeptical.

“Of course, if they disliked him intensely and were going to cancel his contract because they thought he was a buffoon, then no—it’ll be no help at all, but if Bruce tells me that they liked him and they were sorry his stay was shortened by his family tragedy, I’ll move on to the buddy boy routine. I’ll ask casually, ‘So, what did you guys do after the shop was closed for the night?’ The usual answer is dinner, nightclubs, card games, and so on. It will be a group event to welcome him, or to show him what they are really like so that he will be sure to conform.”

As a schoolteacher, I had some understanding of hierarchy and socialization, but this was beyond anything I could have imagined.

Albert continued. “I can tell you that Chadburn Technical Services has a reputation for being a company where the entire executive level gets along socially, but without the heavy drinking or even raunchiness for which some companies are noted.”

“Albert, I cannot thank you enough,” I said.

“Don’t thank me until I’ve delivered the goods. Give me a day or two. And, Jessica, setting the murder aside, I hope you and Seth are having a great time.”

“I’ve gotten to see some old friends and met some lovely people, so yes, if I set the murder aside…I will tell you all about it when I get home. Lunch at Mara’s?”

“Deal.” And I could sense his sunshiny smile once again as he ended the call.

I walked into the kitchen and felt a bit like the cat who had swallowed the canary when I explained to Aileen, Cookie, and Seth that I had found a way by which we might be able to verify whether Lucas Cantrell had been in Philadelphia during the time Victor was killed.

Seth raised his eyebrows ever so slightly and said, “Well, isn’t that just fine. Now I have to ask what’s next for you, Miss Marple. Or should I ask, who is your next target going to be?”

Chapter Twenty

Idecided to explain as much as I thought was practical at the moment. I certainly wasn’t going to mention Paddy Doyle in front of Cookie, because I knew the very idea that I suspected Paddy of anything more than running “the gambling book for all of Southie” would upset Cookie to no end.

I also didn’t want to mention the jealous grocer because, unless Harry had discovered some concrete relationship between Victor and the grocer’s overly friendly wife, we had only the word of Michael Anderson, Victor’s gossipy landlord, that it was even a possibility. I saw no reason to distress Aileen unnecessarily. And it certainly wasn’t necessary to mention Matt Van Houten again. I thought it was safest to move on to an entirely different person, whom I thought to be an unlikely suspect, but at this stage, that wasn’t totally my decision.

“First, I need to talk to Harry, because we now know that Victor was blackmailing Ali Sulaiman. According to Harry, if Sulaiman knew who his blackmailer was, he didn’t need to hire Harry to find him, and second, it stands to reason that if Sulaiman knew the blackmailer was Victor and wanted him murdered, he would have, in Harry’s words, ‘hired a hit man, not a PI.’

“But I will say the blackmail plot leads us to another person as yet unknown. How did Victor find out as much as he did about the project that Cure All Pharmaceuticals had ‘borrowed’ from the National Institute of Health after the institute had set it aside as unworkable? Did Victor get his information from an insider who worked at Cure All, or perhaps, although less likely, did he have a contact at the NIH?”

“Both of those things are highly possible,” said Seth. “As I’ve mentioned before, the pharmaceutical companies, particularly the top honchos, who are often shareholders as well, want to keep all information secret until the actual trials are not only happening but also the early results are meeting or exceeding expectations. The problem is that nearly every employee knows what experiments are in motion, and even for those who’ve signed nondisclosure agreements, it becomes something of a parlor game to talk about whether a drug in the preclinical research stage will ever move forward or will be dropped.

“And let’s not forget the horror stories that are bandied about concerning the millions, if not billions, of dollars wasted on experiments that went nowhere after failing in early development or the preclinical research phase.”

Aileen looked as though she was ready to cry. “So what you’re both saying is that Victor was a crook. Not only did he gamble his money away foolishly, but he stole from his cousins and also tried to blackmail the head of a drug company.”

Cookie said jovially, “And those are only the shenanigans we know about.”

If I’d thought I could reach him without sliding off my chair, I would have given Cookie a nice tap in the shin with the toe of my shoe. However, I didn’t need to; he saw the look on Aileen’s face and quickly said, “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was only joking—trying to lighten the mood, as it were.”

He lifted up the platter of cannoli and asked if anyone wanted another, more as a distraction than anything else.

I looked at my watch and said, “I think Seth and I have imposed on your hospitality long enough. It is long past time for us to leave.” I picked up my phone. “I’ll just call Mahmood.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Cookie stood and hitched up his belt. “With all the help you’ve given us, the least I can do is give you a ride back to the Revere.”

I demurred, he insisted, and I relented. As we were getting ready to leave, Aileen began to clean off the kitchen table, and Seth slipped into his doctor guise once more and suggested she leave the cleanup until later and go to her room to take a nap. I thought she might refuse, but I suppose she felt as worn-out as she looked, because she said to Cookie, “You don’t mind, do you, Dad? I’ll take care of the kitchen later.”

He patted her cheek and said, “Off you go, then.”

As we watched Aileen walk slowly to the staircase, I was sure that Seth and I had just witnessed a scene that had played out more than a hundred times during Aileen’s childhood.

We got into Cookie’s car, and he drove for a few blocks before he brought up the topic that was on all of our minds. “I know I sound like a worried father, but I can’t help it, ’cause that’s what I am. Mrs. Fletcher, Doc, do you think there’s a real chance of Aileen being arrested for Victor’s murder? I mean, I can’t sleep for worrying.”

I hoped to ease his worries, so I chose my words carefully. “I don’t think she is in immediate danger of arrest, which gives us time to gather enough information so that we can throw some names in front of Lieutenant Starkey.”

“Such as? I mean, if Lucas really was out of town the night of the murder and, well, you never mentioned Matt Van Houten, but he is a little off-kilter, wouldn’t you say? That leaves some unknown person related to the drug trial, and what are those odds?” Cookie shook his head.

We spent the rest of the ride trying to cheer him up, but it was a futile task.

When he pulled into a parking spot just opposite the hotel, we said good-bye to Cookie and walked to the main entrance. There were a few people sitting in the lobby, two men reading newspapers and a woman writing out postcards. Mike, the bellman, was standing by the concierge desk and watching us rather closely, so I gave him a wave and a smile, but he didn’t respond.

We stopped at the desk for any messages. Seth had one from Gregory Leung at Cabot Cove Hospital, saying it was not urgent, but he wanted to give an update on Seth’s appendectomy patient. I was grateful that I had no messages. I wanted nothing more than to go to my room, change my clothes, and ride one of the hotel bikes over to the Public Garden for a half hour or so. When I inquired if there were any bicycles available, the clerk said there were, and she would reserve one in my name immediately.

Then she looked at Seth. “And you, Dr. Hazlitt? Are you off for an afternoon ride?”

Seth laughed. “It’s more like an afternoon nap for me. As soon as I return this phone call, I intend to hit my pillow for a good hour at least. Maybe next time but not today.”

We took the short elevator ride up to our floor, and before we said good-bye, I couldn’t help but tease, “If you change your mind about the bike ride, just let me know.”

Seth gave me his grumpy look, the knitted eyebrows and turned-down mouth, and then he laughed, unlocked his door, and said good-bye.

I had barely taken off my jacket and shoes when there was a knock at my door. I half expected that Seth had changed his mind, but when I opened the door, there was Mike, my favorite bellman.

At the same moment, we heard the elevator ding, indicating that it was going to stop at this floor, and Mike made a distinctly odd request: “Please, let me in and close the door.”

I stepped back and Mike hurried to the center of the living room, pointed to the door, and said, “Lock it.”

“Mike, what on earth is going on here? Are you in some kind of danger?”

“Not that I know of, but I’m not so sure about you. What do you do besides write those books my mom is always reading? International spy? Gun runner for the mob?”

“Now, see here—” I didn’t find him to be one bit funny.

I got no further because he held up his hands in mock surrender. “While you were out, this big guy—six foot two or so, weighing in at a good two-thirty and wearing a cheap suit that almost fit—came in looking for you. When reception told him you’d gone out, he looked disgruntled, picked up a copy of today’s paper from the counter, then went and sat in one of the lobby chairs that face the main doors. Each time a lady came into the lobby, he’d give her the once-over and then go back to his paper. And every now and again, he would ask at the desk if you’d returned.”

“I can’t imagine who—”

“That’s only the beginning, Mrs. Fletcher, we are nowhere near the end. Finally, he got bored and came over to the concierge station where I was standing, like I usually am. He slipped me a ten-spot and asked if I could take care of something for him. I said, ‘That depends,’ and he said, ‘Don’t get cute.’

“The short story is he asked if I knew you, and when I told him I did, he gave me this envelope and said he wanted me to hand it to you, like, personally. Not to leave it at the desk or pass it off to another bellman—he said ‘bellboy,’ but what are you going to do with some people?”

I reached for the envelope, but Mike said, “I didn’t get to the strange part. After he gave me the note, he went back to his chair and held the newspaper in his lap as if he were just about to continue reading. Every time a woman came in—including you, I might add—he looked to see if I approached her with the envelope in my hand.”

“That is strange.”

“Sure is. He definitely wanted to know what Jessica Fletcher looked like, so I decided not to go near you in front of him. I thought it was smarter for me to follow you up here.”

I smiled. “And when the elevator bell dinged, you were afraid he had followed you.”

Mike heaved a deep breath and exhaled. “And now my job is done, and whoever that man is, he’s none the wiser. So, aren’t you going to open it now?” He looked meaningfully at the envelope, which I now held in my hand.

I set it on the desk and said, “I am just getting ready to go for a glorious bike ride. I want to take a spin around the Public Garden and be back before dinner, so I think I will let that go until this evening. You know, as a writer, I find that people are always tracking me down, inviting me to book clubs and libraries, that sort of thing. I am sure it is nothing urgent.”

Mike looked disappointed but brightened up when I picked up my purse and gave him a handsome tip. “Aw, Mrs. Fletcher, you don’t have to do that. I told you the mystery man already gave me a ten.”

“Yes, but his ten was to ensure that you put his note directly in my hand, and you have. My tip is to thank you for your discretion in keeping my identity a secret; otherwise he and his entire book club might have wound up sitting in the lobby when I go down to breakfast tomorrow morning.”

Given my natural curiosity, I am sure that Mike didn’t get as far as the elevator before I tore open the envelope and read:

Jazzy Boxley said you have a need to speak to me. He also said you can be trusted. Please remember that if you can’t, it will be on Jazzy, and your entire hometown will know you caused it. I will expect you at my office at 10 a.m. tomorrow. There is no need for you to bring anyone with you.

The next line was an address, and it was followed by the signature, written with a great flourish: Patrick J. Doyle.

While it was true I’d asked for a meeting, I wasn’t sure whether I was more surprised by the fact that he agreed to meet or by the fact that he agreed with such immediacy, as if our meeting were as important to him as it was to me.

I read the note a second time, and I had to wonder if meeting with me about Victor Cantrell had some importance to him. Was there a message he wanted me to relay to the family? Or did he think I had access to money that Victor owed him? Or? Or? Or? Who knew?

Then again, perhaps he just wanted to report back to Jazzy that I was nothing more than a nuisance, but he’d gotten me off his agenda and now Jazzy owed him a favor.

I could ponder for hours, but I knew that a far better idea was for me to change into jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, which is exactly what I did, right after I scribbled on Paddy Doyle’s envelope, Schedule Mahmood 9:30 a.m.

Feeling refreshed and relaxed after changing my clothes, I went down to the lobby and waved at Mike, who was assisting a woman with her luggage, and I asked the desk clerk where I would pick up my bicycle.

She excused herself, picked up the telephone, spoke for a few moments, and then told me that someone would bring it around to the main entrance. She gave me a small ticket with a picture of a unicycle on it and the number 334.

I had no sooner stepped out the front door than a man wheeled over a sharp-looking powder blue Schwinn two-wheeler with hand brakes. I handed him my ticket, and he said, “Here you go, Mrs. Fletcher. Hop on, and I will check if the seat needs adjusting. No, you look fine.”

I thanked him, and he said, “When you come back to the hotel, just park your bike by the wall and tell the doorman your name. He’ll call down to the garage, and I’ll be here in a jiffy to pick it up.”

As I pedaled to the corner and waited for the traffic light to change, I thought, This is just how I like things to work: no fuss, no muss.

I crossed Stuart Street, Park Plaza, and finally Boylston, then turned into the Public Garden at the entrance nearest the statue of Wendell Phillips so I could ride around the lake, savoring the clear sky and the birds leisure-traveling until they were hidden from view by the leafy treetops.

By the time I reached the far end of the lake, my head was clear enough that I could put my thoughts in order. I climbed off the Schwinn and sat on one of the benches, stretched my legs out, and took a long look at my lush surroundings. Not far off, there was a small island in the lake. It was shored up by fairly large concrete pieces, and several lovely trees covered the land. I wondered if there were boat rides here later in the season.

I spent a few minutes deciding how to approach Paddy Doyle. I was sure he wasn’t planning on spending much time with me, so I decided direct was the best way. Then I made a mental note to call Harry. Had he found any concrete information about Victor and the grocer’s wife, or was that just the landlord’s imagination? For Aileen’s sake I hoped there was nothing there. So far, each revelation about Victor had made her question her own judgment. If he was involved with the grocer’s wife…I’d hate to see that be her final heartbreak.

I stood up and reached for the sky, then touched my toes, and repeated a few times. It felt so good that, as I rode back to the hotel, I convinced myself that I was in for an early night—dinner with Seth, followed by an hour or so of reading, and then to bed.

It never occurred to me that anyone would be pacing back and forth in the hotel lobby waiting for me.

Chapter Twenty-One

Ihanded off my bicycle to the doorman and went through the wide glass doors, but I got only a few steps into the lobby before Harry McGraw popped up from one of the leather chairs and said, “Jeez, I thought you’d never come back. I asked the desk to call your room so I could invite you to meet me in the bar, but the woman told me you’d gone for a ride on a bicycle. Jess, I have to say that’s fine and dandy in little Cabot Cove, but here in the big city, you’re lucky if you don’t get crushed by a two-ton truck.”

He took a deep breath and rambled on. “I was afraid to call your cell because I figured the distraction might land you under the wheels of a bus.” Harry was shaking his finger in my face as though he were my father and I had missed curfew and worried everyone half to death.

“Harry, please. There was no need to worry. I rode up to the Public Gardens and then pedaled around the lake. No trucks, no buses, perfectly safe. And I was riding a very new and very reliable Schwinn. And why are you here? Actually, I was planning on calling you to ask if you’d learned anything useful about the grocer’s wife—”

“Forget about her. That was nothing more than a nothing lead from the landlord. I’m guessing he wanted to point us away from his building. But I have an invitation you’re gonna want to accept. I happened to be talking to Howard Sternhagan, and he was good enough to tell me that the Boston PD are all finished doing whatever they were doing in Victor Cantrell’s apartment.” Harry lowered his voice. “There are no cops there anymore. You know what that means?”

“I see. And now you think we should be going back there, but how would we get inside the apartment?”

“Aileen Davis has a key. And if she’s willing to lend the key to anyone, that person would be you.” Harry spoke with all the confidence of a man who had a definite plan.

“Oh, Harry, I don’t know. She’s been through so much. Doesn’t it seem like we are just adding to the pressure that continues to pile on top of her and never lightens up?” I feared even asking the question might provoke an emotional setback for Aileen.

Harry looked at me intently. “Much as you have a point there, and it is a really good point, you have to remember back to right after the murder, when we were willing to go to the apartment because we hoped we’d find something that would take that pressure off Aileen once and for all. That hasn’t changed, has it?”

“No, of course not. But then we weren’t asking her to help us. We hoped we could talk our way in, and when that didn’t happen…We did meet the landlord; maybe he bought your story about working with Lieutenant Starkey. He was willing to talk to us for a few minutes. I have his business card. We could call and ask him to let us into the apartment.”

“That guy? Nah, he’s all about the money. Don’t you remember, he was babbling about rentals even after I flashed my ID. We’d have to pretend to want to rent before he would even unlock the door. And we’d never be able to shake him. He would follow us around talking about thick walls and great water pressure and whatever else. We wouldn’t get a chance to look for anything that might help us. Besides, he’s already met us as investigators—we can’t show up now looking to rent an apartment. Sorry, but our way in has to be Aileen’s key, or else I have to pick the lock.”

I didn’t get the opportunity to remind Harry how I felt about entering places illegally, because at that moment, my cell phone rang. When I saw it was Marshall Stryback, I held up a hand to silence Harry and moved away before I answered.

“Jessica Fletcher, apparently your name is quite magical. I am pleased to tell you that I called Ward Dampier and invited him for tea. At first he was just too busy, busy, busy, until I mentioned that I was having tea with you. At that point, he asked if we could schedule it for tomorrow.” Marshall laughed. “Does three o’clock work for you? In the Courtyard Tea Room?”

“Marshall, you know I am more than delighted to join you and meet Mr. Dampier. I can’t thank you enough for arranging this.”

I could hear the hesitation in Marshall’s voice when he replied. “Jessica, if the moment comes up and you begin to speak to Ward about Allbranch’s recently deceased employee, please remember you promised me that you would be discreet.”

“In all the years we have known each other, have you ever known me to lack discretion?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” he replied, “but I have known you to become feisty, and that’s nearly the same thing.”

“Well, I am happy to take feisty off the board as well,” I said sincerely, all the while holding back laughter.

Being as prone to accuracy as he always was, Marshall reminded me of the time and place for tomorrow’s get-together, and then we disconnected the call.

In the meantime, Harry had sat down in the nearest chair, so I took a seat as well and told him that Marshall had set up a meeting I had requested. “I already spoke to a woman who has the same job as Victor. She said that he was not well regarded by his contemporaries. Now I can get an accurate picture of how his superiors viewed Victor’s reputation in the company. It may give us some idea whether there was reason for anyone at Allbranch to feel that Victor was an impediment to his or her own professional progress.”

“You mean an impediment that needed to be removed,” Harry said. “It’s a long shot, but I suppose it’s worth pursuing. The odds of me getting some big cheese at Allbranch to sit down and talk about the death of a midlevel employee is absolutely nil. Since you have the juice to get it done, go for it.

“But now, about Aileen and the key…” Harry trailed off.

“I have an idea. Let’s see if Seth has awakened from his nap. He has been spending a fair amount of time with Aileen and Cookie. We can tell him we want to ask Aileen for the key to Victor’s apartment, and if, in his professional opinion, Seth believes it won’t upset her, then I am fine with your plan. We’ll take the key and look around Victor’s apartment. There may be some little thing the police didn’t consider important that strikes a chord with one of us.” I looked at Harry, waiting for his objection, but he was surprisingly amenable.

“Makes sense. Doc has been keeping a medical eye on Aileen right from the start. Are we ready to give him a call?”

I nodded and took out my cell. Seth answered so quickly that I was sure he had been awake for a while.

“Harry and I are in the lobby—” I began, but Seth stopped me.

“Say no more. I recall overhearing someone say that the chicken wings the lobby bar serves are the best in Boston. If they’re even half that good, I have a hankering to try them. How about we meet there in five minutes?” Seth said.

When I disconnected the call and told Harry that Seth would meet us in the bar, Harry asked what the attraction was, and when told about the wings, he said, “Not for me. I think I’ll order a couple of sliders.”

The bar area was practically empty, apart from two men sitting at the bar itself and one couple sitting at one of the black wire-legged cocktail tables. Harry and I sat at a table closest to the bar, and Seth came in just as we were settling in to our seats. There was a menu on the table, which only I glanced at. Harry and Seth were ready with their choices when the bartender came to our table. By the time they ordered I had settled on a grilled chicken salad, and we all asked for coffee.

“So how was your bike ride?” Seth asked. “If you’re thinking of riding again tomorrow morning, I might be inclined to join you.”

“I’d like that,” I said, and turned to Harry. “Would you like to ride along? I’m sure I could persuade the hotel to loan you a bicycle.”

Harry shook his head and pounced on Seth with what was really on his mind. “Definitely not my mode of transportation. Anyway, Doc, what I really need to talk to you about is Aileen Davis.”

Seth looked alarmed. “Has something happened? Is she all right? I knew I should have called Cookie this morning.”

Harry waved off Seth’s concern. “Nah, nothing like that, it’s only that I kinda need your opinion on something.”

Harry went on to explain his plan to get us into Victor’s apartment for what he called a little “recon.” He stopped talking when a server brought our coffee and food. But even before he began speaking again, I could see by the look on Seth’s face that he had concerns.

“Have either of you seen or talked to Aileen today?” Seth asked.

I shook my head.

Harry said, “Not me, I was here waiting for Jessica. She seems to be Aileen’s buddy.”

“So neither of you has any idea how Aileen is feeling today or if she slept well last night. In a situation like Aileen’s, emotions are almost never on an even keel. We don’t know if her emotions today are reacting to her recent trauma. She may feel entirely different than she felt yesterday. We are not even sure she was able to get out of bed this morning.” Seth sighed. “All I can advise is that the three of us go to Cookie’s house together, and I can discern the likelihood of your request being harmless rather than harmful to Aileen.”

“Doc, you’re the best. And, hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you both. I know this trip of yours to Beantown has been a real bust when it comes to having a little fun. The good news is that my buddy Max Smiley is going to be doing his standup routine along with a few other locals every night this week at the Nickel and Dime Comedy Club.”

Harry continued. “I’ve seen Max do his thing, and I have to tell you, he really is funny. Add in a few other struggling comics, and these shows aren’t half bad. I’m thinking we should take a few hours to forget about murder and have a few laughs and maybe a drink or two.”

Harry looked so hopeful there was no way I could say no, and it really did sound like fun.

“I think that sounds like something I’d enjoy. Perhaps we could invite Cookie and Aileen?”

As soon as I made that suggestion, Seth brought us back to reality. “Let’s see how today goes before we start expanding Aileen’s social life. Fair enough?”

Harry and I exchanged a look and quickly agreed. Dr. Hazlitt was in charge. I texted Cookie to ask if we three could stop by and he responded, Any time.

* * *

The ride from the hotel to Cookie’s house was becoming a familiar route to me, and as we moved into the more residential section of Boston, I enjoyed watching people sprucing up their lawns and seeing neighbors waving at one another from their porches.

Harry easily found a parking spot across the street from the Davis house, and I wasn’t surprised that Cookie was standing in the open doorway waiting as we climbed up the stairs from the sidewalk.

“Come in, come in. Have a seat. Take your choice.” Cookie ushered us toward the couch and chairs in the living room.

“Aileen will be right down. She’s been baking blueberry muffins all afternoon, and she just now went up to change out of a shirt that had almost as much flour dust on it as the recipe had in it.” He chuckled. “Don’t tell her I said that. I’m sure the muffins will be out of the oven in a few minutes. I know you’ll want to try them.”

“Baking muffins, huh? It sounds like Aileen is back to her old self. I guess she’s feeling good, huh, Cookie?” Harry didn’t dare look at me or at Seth when he said it.

Before Cookie could answer, I said, “We would love muffins, at least I would.” Then I added Harry’s question in a much softer tone. “Cookie, how are you and Aileen managing to survive all this upset? I am sure you would both like your lives to return to how it was before…”

“Speaking of our normal lives, Gilhooley called this morning. He asked the same questions, but his real goal was finding out when I would be back behind the stick. I’m guessing he’d like it to be as soon as I can manage. I told him I’m not sure. I mean, a lot depends on whether Starkey comes sniffing around Aileen again.” Cookie dropped his head and stared at the floor. Then he said, “What do you all think? Does Aileen need a lawyer?”

From the staircase, Aileen said, “Don’t go throwing your money away, Dad. I haven’t done anything to need a lawyer, and we should both be thinking about going back to work. How are you all? Hold your answers. The muffins are calling.” Aileen hurried to the kitchen and shut off a beeping timer. We could hear her fussing with the oven, and then she said loudly enough to be sure we could hear, “Oh my, these muffins look capital D-licious.”

Seth leaned over and said in a hoarse whisper, “Cookie, has she been this hyper all day?”

Cookie nodded. “At six o’clock this morning, I woke up to the sound of the vacuum. I stuck my head out the bedroom door to see Aileen cleaning the upstairs hallway and the staircase.”

Harry was squirming restlessly in his chair, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before he blurted out his plan, so I asked Seth if Aileen’s hyperactivity was anything we needed to worry about.

“Keeping busy is generally considered to be a better response to trauma than sleeping all day and crying all night, but there is a wide range of responses that fall in between.” Seth got up from his chair. “Why don’t I step into the kitchen and see if Aileen needs any help with those muffins?”

Cookie looked at me and mouthed, What?

I told him about Harry’s plan to ask Aileen if we could borrow her key to Victor’s apartment.

“Oh, I don’t know—she seems so calm and cheerful right now that I don’t want anything to remind her.” Cookie looked worried and just a bit helpless.

“Harry and I are worried about Aileen too. That’s why Seth came with us. He is the best one to judge her state of mind, and if he doesn’t want me to ask Aileen if I can borrow the key to Victor’s apartment, then trust me, the subject will never come up.”

I watched as some of the apprehension melted away from Cookie’s demeanor. He sat up straighter and was able to give me a brief smile. “Oh, that’d be a different story. I’m not at all sure that Aileen would want Harry to visit Victor’s apartment and go through his things, but I’ve got a feeling she’d feel better about it if you were the person in charge of the key. She likes you and I know she would trust you. It’s not that she wouldn’t trust Harry…” The anxious look was creeping back onto his face.

With Harry sitting a few feet away and obviously able to hear us, Cookie might have thought he’d gone too far, so I replied, “It’s just that we teachers stick together.”

Cookie laughed with relief. “Yes, ma’am, that’s it exactly.”

Aileen, dressed in light denim jeans and a pink T-shirt that read Boston EST. 1630, came out of the kitchen carrying a large tray holding a pitcher of lemonade, glasses, napkins, and dessert plates. Seth followed behind with a platter of blueberry muffins. When the tray and the platter were conveniently placed on the coffee table, Aileen poured lemonade into glasses for each of us and told us to help ourselves to muffins. I thanked my lucky stars that the grilled chicken salad I’d eaten in the hotel bar was a small one, because I didn’t want to insult or upset Aileen by refusing a muffin. And I must admit that fresh-out-of-the-oven fragrance was tantalizing.

We enjoyed our muffins and lemonade while Harry and Cookie talked about the most recent Red Sox game. When they could not wring another sentence out of a game that had no spectacular plays and did not even go into extra innings, I thought to myself, It’s time.

I set my plate and my glass on the tray and said, “Aileen, Harry found out today that the police have finished examining Victor’s apartment and removed the police tape from the door.”

She was about to take a bite of her muffin, but her hand froze just before it reached her mouth, and she returned the muffin to its plate. “What does that mean exactly?” she asked with more than a little caution in her voice.

I thought Harry might want to answer, but he gave me a slight nod, so I said, “It means that the police have finished examining the apartment, and now Victor’s family or the landlord or anyone who has a key is no longer prohibited from entering the apartment.”

“Really? That means I can go and get my things! That’s the best news I’ve had since…since everything happened.”

Aileen reached for her muffin while the rest of us looked at one another in stunned silence.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Finally, Seth said gently, “Aileen, are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I’m positive, Dr. Hazlitt,” said Aileen, and she started enumerating her reasons, ticking the fingers of her right hand with the index finger of her left. “First, I know what’s in that apartment that belongs to me, and I know exactly where those things are. Second, if there are any papers or records showing how serious Victor’s gambling addiction was, I can remove them before his mother finds them when the family begins to pack up Victor’s things. Why break her heart any more than it already is? Third, and most important for me, I’ll see the living room for the final time, and it will be without Victor’s body sprawled across the hassock. Maybe that will help the nightmares go away.”

For a moment I thought Aileen was going to cry, but she was stronger than I realized, and although it was clear that she was at least slightly unnerved, she held her head high.

Harry cleared his throat rather loudly, and when I looked at him, he jutted his chin toward Aileen. It took me a moment to realize what he wanted me to do.

“Aileen, if you don’t mind, I would like to go with you. Perhaps Harry could drive us while Seth and your father stay here and resume their chess competition.”

“You can’t fool me, Mrs. Fletcher. Harry wants to get a good look at the apartment and see if he can find anything the police might have missed. He takes his private investigator title seriously. I learned all about it when I was about ten and he gave me a junior PI badge and a set of memo books and pens so I could take notes on all my cases.” Aileen laughed. “Do you remember, Harry?”

“I sure do, and I remember how your mom laced into me when she couldn’t find you one afternoon. She searched all over Southie, and when she caught up with you over by Columbus Park, you told her you were on a case, following Mrs. Tierney’s cat, Miss Kitty, to see if she would lead you to the rascally cat who got her pregnant.” Harry chuckled.

“And I did find him eventually. He was a handsome fellow living behind Rosario’s Italian Restaurant on a broken chair seat wedged in between their dumpster and the one for the shoe repair shop. And when the kittens were born, I knew I was right because three of the babies were brown and beige striped like Miss Kitty, but the fourth had a gray body with a white face just like his dad.”

Aileen folded her arms across her chest and gave us a satisfied grin.

I spontaneously clapped, and the men all joined in, which led to every one of us laughing. Aileen stood and made a small curtsy, and we clapped even louder. Watching her, I finally felt sure that Aileen was going to be all right. It would take time, and she might falter now and again, but I knew she was moving in the right direction to get her life back on track.

“Okay, if we’re going to the apartment, just let me go change into something more presentable and get a bag to pack my belongings.” Aileen bent to pick up the lemonade pitcher, but Cookie stopped her.

“I’ll take care of this, sweetheart, you go get ready.”

* * *

Except for Harry grumbling about several other drivers whose actions on the roads irritated him, the three of us were extremely quiet during the ride to the building where Victor had lived.

Harry parked the car, and when we got out, I asked Aileen if she was sure she was ready to go inside.

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s get this done.” Aileen linked her arm through mine, and we followed Harry into the building.

Just our luck, I thought when I saw a familiar man standing by the mailboxes. Michael Anderson turned from whatever he was doing, clearly distracted by our entrance. Always on the alert for prospective tenants, he turned to us and said, “May I help you?”

“Oh, you remember us,” Harry said, and when he flashed his ID card, too rapidly for Anderson to actually see it, the landlord’s face fell.

“I was told you people were finished and that my building would be left in peace. In fact, I’m preparing to pull out a copy of Mr. Cantrell’s lease so I can get in touch with his family. If they don’t clean out the apartment immediately, I’ll have to call Harvey the Junk and have him send a team over to empty the place.” Mr. Anderson tugged on his goatee as if he was becoming more frustrated by the second.

“Excuse me for asking, but since this is the middle of the month, do you actually have the right to empty the apartment? Surely Victor paid his rent at the beginning of the month as people normally do,” I said.

“Of course, of course. You’re absolutely right. I meant I’m just planning ahead in case I can’t find an emergency contact. This is a premium address. I can’t afford to let any apartment go unoccupied for even one day longer than necessary.”

“Today is your lucky day,” Harry said, and he reached past me and pointed to Aileen. “This is Ms. Davis, Mr. Cantrell’s, er, fiancée. Lieutenant Starkey asked us to escort her here so that she could remove her belongings from the apartment. Maybe you’d like her phone number?”

I was about to ask if that was really necessary, but Anderson took a cell phone from his pocket and handed it to Aileen, who obliged by tapping in her name and phone number, and then asked for his number in return. At first he seemed startled, but when Aileen said that she wanted to be able to recognize his number if he called and not ignore the call as spam, it seemed to make sense to him. He thanked her, and we three left him and went upstairs to Victor’s apartment.

We stood in a huddle in front of the door. Aileen took out her key and started to move it toward the lock, but at the last second, she handed it to Harry. “Would you?”

“No problem, kid,” Harry said as he inserted the key and pushed the door open. Then he stepped inside.

I wrapped my arm around Aileen’s shoulder and said, “Take your time.”

She gave a brief nod, and we moved slowly into the foyer and stopped there.

From where I stood, I could see most of the living room. I scanned it quickly and was pleased that, although there was plenty of fingerprint powder scattered on the furniture and the windowsills, there was no sign of a chalk body outline.

Aileen whispered, “I’m ready.”

Once we were in the living room, I asked Aileen where she kept her things.

“Mostly the bathroom and the bedroom, some in the kitchen,” she said.

“Shall we begin in the kitchen, then?” I thought the least personal room was the best place to start.

The kitchen was small but bright, with sunlight shining through a large window over the sink. Aileen opened a cabinet next to the stove and removed a cast-iron skillet. Then she opened a cabinet next to the refrigerator and removed a couple of spice jars, one of chili powder and one of cilantro.

“Victor had a thing for Mexican food. He loved chicken quesadillas the way I made them in the skillet, and he raved over my extra-spicy tacos. I guess I should get my toothbrush and toiletries next.”

We walked through the living room again and saw Harry carefully examining the contents of two bookshelves that were attached to the wall above Victor’s desk. Aileen stepped into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet door and reached inside. After removing a couple of items, which she put in her purse, she walked into the bedroom. I waited in the doorway while she opened a drawer and took out some items of clothing and stuffed them into her tote. “Well, that’s it,” she said as she zipped the top closed. “Somehow I thought there would be more.”

When we got to the living room, Aileen sat in a chair and hugged the tote on her lap. “If you’d like to help Harry poke around, go ahead, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m fine.” Aileen looked comfortable and sounded sincere, so I took her at her word.

Harry was busy at the desk, so I looked in the drawers of the two tables that flanked the couch. One was empty. The other held an assortment of batteries, a small flashlight, pens and pencils, rubber bands, and two tape measures, one plastic and the other a metal pullout. In other words, I had found Victor’s junk drawer. As I sifted through the contents, I dropped a pen, and it rolled under the couch. I knelt, and as I lifted the skirt of the couch, I noticed a tiny piece of something white, a scrap of paper perhaps, standing as if attached to the rear of the couch’s front leg. I picked it up along with the pen.

I looked at the jagged piece of paper, which was wrinkled but reasonably dust-free, so it hadn’t been there very long. It was shaped sort of like a triangle with a rounded top, and three letters were printed in the middle: VIC. A tiny mark on the base of the paper indicated that the scrap had been torn from a larger piece of paper that had more print on it. I wondered if it was from social correspondence or something business-related. I showed it to Aileen.

“Do you think it was part of a letter someone sent him? Did he use the nickname ‘Vic’ informally?”

Aileen shook her head. “No one ever called him Vic. He insisted that everyone use his full name. I often heard him say, ‘Vic sounds too much like a victim. I want to remind the world I’m a Victor!’ And he was serious. So I guess it’s the way the paper was torn that part of his name just happened to survive.”

“You are probably right,” I said, “but there are so many possibilities. Think of all the words with ‘vic’ in them: civic, vice, vicinity, even conviction. And something else just struck me. This could be some sort of business letter or legal document. Why else would all the letters be capitalized?”

“Mrs. Fletcher, you are getting more fanciful than some of my fourth graders. The use of capital letters might mean that, but it is also possible someone was typing without realizing the CapsLock key was on, or maybe they’re just mad and yelling at Victor.”

I had to agree that made perfect sense, but I couldn’t help thinking there was more to it. After all, from how Aileen had described the scene, this scrap of paper had been a mere few inches from Victor’s body.

I brought it into the bedroom where Harry was now searching the closet, and I showed it to him. Harry took it, flipped it over to check both sides, and then turned on a lamp and held the paper to the light bulb looking for invisible ink, a trick he’d once taught me. “Believe me, Jessica, Starkey’s men took everything that isn’t nailed down out of this place. I really wish that piece of paper could tell us something, but it’s way too small to be much of a clue.”

We walked out to the living room together. Aileen was still sitting in the chair, but I didn’t like the fact that she was staring at the floor. I tried to sound extra cheerful. “Are you sure you have everything?”

Aileen stood and took a long look around the room. “Yes, I’m sure; and if I did forget something I’m sure it’s not worth retrieving.”

I was glad Harry offered to carry her bag, which left her arms free so that she and I could link our arms as we went down the hall. As strong as Aileen was trying to be, I was certain a bit of comfort was in order. When we got to the top of the staircase, Harry signaled us to stop and be quiet. He walked down the first three steps and leaned so far over the banister that for a moment I was afraid he might fall.

He stood up straight and said, “There’s no sign of the nosy landlord. Let’s get out of here before he pops out of nowhere.”

We were walking to the car when my cell phone rang. I glanced at it. Albert Pellecchia. Much as I wanted to hear what he had to say, I was not in any position to speak with him. I waited for the call to go to voicemail, and then I texted him.

Can’t talk now. Will call you later.

We were about halfway to Aileen’s house when she began to shake off the melancholy that seemed to have taken over her spirit while we were in Victor’s apartment. She began to talk about going back to work. “Mrs. Fletcher, you were a teacher, so you know how involved you get with the children. I have a student who’s been struggling with math, and he made a breakthrough on the very last day before I went on leave. And there’s a girl whose dad has been ill for quite a while. She needs extra attention. And I know the substitute who has my class, Irene Gilmore, is a sweetheart, but she doesn’t know the children like I do.”

“Oh, yes, I understand completely. I did sub work any number of times. No matter how hard I tried, I was a stranger, and before the class could warm up to me and me to them—voilà!—their teacher was back, and I was only a memory. If I was even that.” I sighed.

Harry had something to add. “When I was a kid, we loved substitute teachers! We could swap seats, switch names, and cause all sorts of chaos. By the time she figured out what some of us were up to, the day would be over, and if we were lucky, our regular teacher would be back the next day.”

“And what happened if the substitute returned?” I was curious.

“Oh, the usual: detention, extra homework. I do remember one substitute, Mrs. McDermott, caught onto us right away, not that we knew it. When we lined up for dismissal, she made a point of saying she would see us all tomorrow. So, the next day, we were planning a few more shenanigans, and who walked into the room but our principal, Sister Delphina. She didn’t even look around the room. All she said was ‘I will be back in three minutes, and I expect that seating will be in perfect order.’ She left, and three minutes later, Mrs. McDermott came back and class started in earnest. No more pranks.”

Aileen and I were still laughing and teasing “bad boy” McGraw when he parked in front of Cookie’s house.

Cookie was obviously relieved to see that Aileen had not been overly upset by our outing. He gave her a big hug and sent her upstairs to put her things away. Then he invited us to stay for dinner, but Seth, Harry, and I were unanimous in saying it was time for us to leave. Cookie got a little misty-eyed as he thanked us for taking care of his “little girl.”

Traffic was light, so our ride back to the hotel went by quickly. Harry and Seth decided to go to the lobby bar and check out the evening menu, while I told them I had a few things to attend to but might join them in a while.

As soon as I got to my room, I took out my phone and returned Albert Pellecchia’s call.

“Jessica Fletcher, woman of mystery,” Albert joked. “Here I sit with the information about a suspect, and I couldn’t reach you, the chief investigator.”

I decided to give it right back to him. “When you called, I was at the murder scene with the least likely suspect and a private investigator. I thought it was prudent to not pick it up.”

“Now that sounds smart.” Then Albert turned serious. “If Lucas Cantrell was high on your suspect list, I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment.

“It seems that everyone at Chadburn Technical thought he was a great guy. So much so that Larry Laurent, the senior vice president of finance, invited Lucas to a card game at his house, and as those things are wont to do, the game went on until the wee hours of the morning. There’s no way he could have gotten to Boston, committed the murder, and been back in Philly for a nine-thirty meeting when he didn’t leave Larry’s house until two a.m.”

“Well, that is disappointing in one sense,” I said, “but on the other hand, by crossing him off my list, I can concentrate on my two other suspects.”

“So, when are you and Seth coming home?” Albert changed the subject. “Cabot Cove isn’t the same without you. I had lunch the other day with Dan Andrews, Walter Hendon, and Pierce Collymore, and we all agreed that we miss you. And when the editor of the paper, the harbormaster, and the fire chief all admit to missing you and Seth, well, you must be two pretty special people.” Albert sounded so sincere that I was afraid I would get choked up, but thankfully I didn’t.

“Hopefully, we will be home quite soon. My business here is nearly finished, and I’ve noticed Seth has increasingly been on the phone with Gregory Leung from the hospital, so I am sure he is about ready to head home to check on his patients. I plan on talking to Susan Shevlin in the next day or so to find out when Jed Richardson’s calendar is clear.”

“Jessica, when you say, ‘business,’ I hope you mean author business and not murder business,” Albert said lightly, but then his tone turned more serious when he said, “Please stay safe.”

I promised I would, and we ended the call.

I ordered a bowl of clam chowder and a carafe of iced tea from room service and then texted Seth to let him and Harry know that I would not be joining them. Tomorrow’s schedule was full, and the way things had unraveled nearly every day since we’d arrived in Boston, I wanted to get a good night’s sleep so I would be prepared for anything—which turned out to be a smart move on my part.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The next morning was rather cloudy, but Seth and I were scheduled to meet in the lobby for a bike ride before breakfast, so I got up and did my usual exercises. As I was finishing my stretches, I began to think about how little we’d learned about Victor Cantrell’s life. I knew he had financial problems and gambling debts, but what about the normal parts of life? I thought it was odd that when Aileen and I were at the visitation at his aunt’s house, everyone was polite and chatty, but no one really talked about Victor. Well, I certainly hoped to find out more about him today, from both Paddy Doyle and Ward Dampier.

I put on my beige sweat suit and took the elevator. Seth was waiting for me in the lobby with a copy of the Boston Globe on his lap.

“Not a lot of news today, but Harry and I missed you last night! The evening menu over yonder”—he pointed to the lobby bar—“is even better than the early one. I had a lobster roll while Harry had some delicious-looking steak tips and sweet potato fries. I hope you didn’t go to bed hungry.”

“Of course not. I had a nice bowl of clam chowder and called it an early night.”

We walked to the reception desk and asked that the bicycles we had reserved be brought up from the garage, and by the time we crossed the lobby and went through the front door, the bicycles were waiting for us near the garage entrance. Seth had to adjust his seat slightly, and then we headed for the area where the Public Gardens sat right across Charles Street from the Boston Common. I let Seth choose and he opted for the Common.

We entered from the corner of Charles Steet and Boylston Street and took a leisurely ride past the ball field and the Parkman Bandstand. When we got to the Soldiers and Sailors Monument, which memorialized the veterans of the Civil War, Seth wanted to stop, and he became quiet just as he had a few days ago in the Public Gardens when we stopped at the statue of Colonel Thomas Cass. Once again I was sure he was remembering his own military service and the men with whom he served. When he was ready, we turned and retraced our path through the Common and on to the street.

The clouds grew darker and a light rain began to fall just as we crossed Boylston, so we quickened our pace for the last block and were under the shelter of the hotel entryway before the rain began to come down in torrents. We left our bicycles with the doorman and headed into the dining room for breakfast. After we ordered poached eggs with rye toast for me and steak and eggs with peppers and onions for Seth, he asked me what my plans were for the day.

“I have one meeting later this morning and another in the library tearoom this afternoon,” I said, and then took a sip of coffee, hoping he wouldn’t ask me to put a finer point on the times. Today was the day I hoped to find out more about Victor Cantrell.

“Oh, it’s too bad your day is so busy. Jason Lancaster is flying home tonight, but he invited me to lunch. I thought you might like the opportunity to meet him. He’d be one more doctor you could bother when you can’t quite figure out a unique way to kill some poor soul in one of your books.”

“Very funny,” I said as the server brought our breakfasts.

I waited until Seth cut into his steak and took a bite and then asked if it tasted as good as Harry’s steak tips looked last night.

As soon as he swallowed, he said, “It certainly does.”

We had nearly finished our breakfast when Seth asked the questions I’d been dreading.

“So, tell me, Jess, what are the topics of today’s meetings?”

I didn’t want to lie, but it was absolutely crucial that no one know I was going to see Paddy Doyle this morning. Jazzy Boxley had promised him that I would be unobtrusive and our conversation would be confidential. I decided to be vague.

“Actually, I am considering setting a book here in Boston, so this morning I am going to do a research interview, and I think I mentioned to you that this afternoon Marshall Stryback has arranged for me to have tea with one of the major financial supporters of the library.”

“As your doctor, I have to say you work too hard and don’t play nearly enough,” Seth said, but when he saw my eyebrows furrow, he amended his criticism. “Of course, that’s entirely up to you.”

I was saved from answering by my cell phone ringing. Harry McGraw. I hoped he wasn’t going to ask me to do something that would interfere with my plans. Nothing could prevent my meeting with Paddy Doyle, although that was something Harry must never know about.

“Good morning, Harry.”

“It’s a good-news morning, Jessica. I spoke to my friend Max Smiley, and he comped us three tickets for tonight’s show at the Nickel and Dime. Isn’t that terrific? How about I pick you and Doc Hazlitt up at around seven? You can tell Doc to bring his appetite. The bar snacks include Fenway franks and oyster sliders. Can’t go wrong there.”

“That sounds like a nice little break to me. Seth is right here, I will put him on.” I passed the phone to Seth and said, “It’s Harry.”

I watched Seth’s face light up as Harry told him his plan for our evening. After they said good-bye, Seth said, “Now see, that’s what I’m talking about. We’re on vacation, and we’re going to have a fun night.”

I smiled and nodded my agreement, but tonight was the furthest thing from my mind. I took a final sip of coffee and said, “I am really looking forward to it, but for now, duty calls. Enjoy your lunch with Dr. Lancaster. Please tell him I am sorry I couldn’t join you, but I hope to have the opportunity to meet him in the future.”

As I headed to the elevator, I took out my phone, called Mahmood, and booked him to pick me up at the hotel at two thirty for a ride to the main library on Copley Square.

“This sounds to me like you are doing book work, not spy work. I am glad. It is safer for you,” Mahmood said just before we disconnected.

I showered and changed into a gray suit with a black-and-white print blouse, which I thought was an excellent choice for such a busy day. When I got off the elevator and walked through the lobby, I was relieved to see that Seth was not in his usual chair reading the Boston Globe. I didn’t want him to walk me outside and wonder why I asked the doorman to get me a taxi. He was bound to ask why I had not called Mahmood, and nothing I could say would get Seth to stop probing, but it was imperative that no one, not even Mahmood, ever learn that I had visited Paddy Doyle.

The doorman held the taxi door open, and I climbed inside. The driver introduced himself as Charlie. I gave him the address Paddy Doyle had sent me, and when Charlie didn’t flinch, I relaxed, knowing that the address was not notorious among the cabbies of Boston.

When we pulled up in front of an older building that had clearly been modernized, I asked Charlie to wait, as I didn’t expect to be more than twenty or thirty minutes. When I slipped him a ten-dollar bill, he cheerfully agreed.

It turned out that Paddy Doyle’s office was on the second floor of a three-story building. The first floor was a barber shop, and a sign on the stairs indicated that the third floor was occupied by an accountant. Paddy’s door had a silver plaque at eye level that read Doyle Enterprises.

I tried the doorknob, but it did not turn, so I rang the bell. A buzzer responded and I pushed the door open.

A middle-aged brunette whose hair was beginning to show signs of gray looked up from her computer screen and said, “You must be Mrs. Fletcher. Mr. Doyle is expecting you. Please have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

She went through a door behind her desk, and in a few minutes, she opened the door wide and said, “Mr. Doyle will see you now.”

I was surprised that Paddy Doyle was standing on the visitor’s side of his desk and greeted me with a warm handshake. “Mrs. Fletcher, so nice to meet you. I have to tell you that my wife is a big fan. She’ll be tickled pink when she finds out I’ve met you. Please have a seat.”

He walked around his desk and sat down while I settled into a visitor’s chair.

Doyle continued. “Jazzy Boxley speaks highly of you, and since both he and my wife would be disappointed if I didn’t try to assist you in some way, please tell me how you think I can help.”

Surprised by how cordial he was, I decided that being direct was my best approach. “I am curious about your relationship with Victor Cantrell. I saw you speaking with him at Gilhooley’s on the night of the exciting eight ball match between Sticks Donohue and—who was it? That’s right, Pugsy Johnson, who, as I recall, won the match shortly after you gave an inconspicuous signal to Mr. Donohue.”

Whatever response I expected, it wasn’t the one I got. Paddy Doyle began laughing, a deep belly laugh that I’m sure his neighbors both upstairs and at street level could hear. He leaned his chair back so far that I thought his head might bang the wall. “Mrs. Fletcher, I have to hand it to Jazzy. He told me you’re a sharp cookie, and he was right about that.”

Then he swung himself and his chair upright and smacked both hands on the desktop, which I am happy to say did not intimidate me in the least.

“So, it seems to me I tell you whatever I know about Victor Cantrell, and I can rely on you to not mention to anyone what you thought you saw the night of the big eight ball playoff. Fair trade?” Paddy looked me directly in the eye.

“Fair trade,” I replied, and I was grateful that, as I had seen so many other gamblers do, Mr. Doyle did not spit on his hand before he held it out so we could shake on our agreement.

“Okay. Victor Cantrell was a gambler and a lousy one at that. When I first knew him, he would bet on poor choices but in amounts he could handle losing. Gradually, the amounts he bet became larger, and he’d reached a point where it seemed like he was picking his bets using the kiddie system.”

“The kiddie system?” I asked.

“Yeah, you know, eeny, meeny, miny, moe.”

“So, the other night…” I was more determined to find out about their conversation.

“That was nothing serious. He owed way over the limit and I cut him off. He wasn’t happy but, hey, I run a business here. Besides, he knew the rules. He’d been cut off before. Once he squared his debt, he would be back in action. As it turns out, and Jazzy may have mentioned this to you because he and I are in similar lines of work, dead clients don’t pay their debts. I prefer to deal with clients who live long healthy lives.” He stood up. “Now if there’s nothing else…”

“In fact, I do have one more question. Do you know of anyone in your line of work who might be doing, ah, business with Victor and been disappointed by his lack of payment?” I asked.

“I see where you’re going, and sorry, but I can’t drum up any murder suspects for you. I’m the only one in this town who can afford to carry a debt load as large as the ones that Victor Cantrell often owed.”

“And why did you allow him to do so?”

“That’s two questions, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll answer you, but please let it be the last. I allowed Victor to run up large debts because sooner or later he always managed to pay them. And before you ask, I have no idea how he got the money to do it.” Paddy Doyle walked around his desk and escorted me to the reception area, where he said good-bye.

I said good day to his assistant, and as I left the office of Doyle Enterprises, I heard him tell his assistant to give him ten minutes, as he wanted to make a phone call. I suspected he was about to call Jazzy Boxley to let him know that his favor had been taken care of in order to ensure that, if ever needed, it would be returned.

Charlie was listening to a ball game, but when I opened the door of the taxi, he turned it off—not from the radio, to my surprise, but his phone.

I asked, “Was that the Red Sox? Don’t turn it off on my account.”

“Not a problem. It’s last night’s game. I record the games, and I play them when I’m alone in the hack. Makes the time go by,” he said.

I had to laugh. “Charlie, are you by any chance related to my friend Vinny Tieri? He’s a detective in New York City, and he records all the Mets games and starts watching them about fifteen minutes after the first pitch. That way, if he gets an emergency call from work while he is home watching the game, he won’t miss anything important.”

“Don’t know him, but I would like to meet him someday. He sounds like a guy who loves the game like I do. Of course, I’d have to question his taste in teams.” And Charlie regaled me with baseball stories the rest of the way to the Revere Hotel.

I checked at the reception desk and was thankful the only message was from Seth, saying that he and Jason Lancaster would miss me at lunch. I went to my room knowing I was happily free for the next couple of hours.

* * *

At two thirty sharp I was in front of the hotel when Mahmood pulled up.

“It is nice to see you again,” he said. “I wondered if you and the doctor had left Boston.”

“Oh, no. We would never leave without saying good-bye. It is likely that we will ask you to take us to the airport.”

“I have been telling my wife, Zara, how much fun I have with all your mysterious comings and goings. She was amazed by the slow ride around the block. Sometimes she thinks I exaggerate, but you know I don’t. You are an interesting passenger, Mrs. Fletcher. That is for certain.”

I changed the topic by asking about his grandchildren, and that kept Mahmood chatting happily until he stopped the taxi in front of the McKim Library. I paid him and said I expected to be at least an hour, possibly longer.

“Do not worry, Mrs. Fletcher. In this part of Boston, there are always lots of short runs to keep me busy until you require a ride back to the hotel. Just give me a call.”

As he drove away, I stood at the curb admiring the magnificent architecture of the building, and I thought, not for the first time, how lucky Marshall Stryback was to come here every day. And he calls that work! I smiled to myself.

I made my way to the Courtyard Tea Room and told the hostess who I was meeting. She guided me immediately to a table where I saw Marshall and another gentleman chatting genially.

They both rose when they saw us walking toward them.

Marshall came closer and gave me a kiss on the cheek, while Ward Dampier stood with his hands at his sides until Marshall introduced us and pulled out my chair.

Once we were all in our places, Ward Dampier said, “Mrs. Fletcher, I cannot tell you how honored I am to meet you. I often say that A Killing at Hastings Rock is the greatest mystery novel I have ever read.”

“You are very kind. I am delighted that you enjoy my books, but please, call me Jessica.”

He beamed as if I’d bestowed a great honor on him. “I’d like that very much, Jessica. And if you’d be so kind—Marshall warned me not to, but I couldn’t help myself.”

He lifted four books from the empty chair on the far side of the table. “Would you sign these before you leave? If it’s not a bother.”

“It is no bother at all. Pass them over, I’ll take care of that right now so we don’t forget.” I took a pen from my purse and inscribed each book.

To Ward,

Lovely to meet you.

J. B. Fletcher

As he was putting the books back on the chair, a server came and requested our order. When Ward and I confessed we hadn’t even looked at the menu, Marshall came to the rescue.

“We’ll have a pot of Irish Breakfast Assam and a pot of Jasmine Pearls Green. As to our food, I’d like to be surprised. Please bring us whatever is the special of the day.” Then he looked at me and at Ward. “How does that sound?”

“Sounds just grand,” Ward said, and I agreed.

In fact, everything was so congenial that all I needed to do now was to bring up Victor Cantrell—and gauge how Ward reacted.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The tea was served immediately. I opted for the Jasmine Green while the men preferred the bolder Irish Breakfast Assam. Marshall took it upon himself to pour, which gave me the opportunity to say to Ward, “I understand that you and your employer are very generous supporters of the Boston Public Library.”

“We do our very best. Allbranch is a private savings and loan company, and we are committed to supporting Boston, the place where our company has grown for the past fifty-five years. What better way to support everyone in a town equally than to ensure that they have quality library service, which, I might add, Marshall works very hard to provide,” Ward said, clearly proud of his company.

“Allbranch. Now that is a coincidence.”

As soon as I spoke, Marshall hit the top of my teacup with the spout of the teapot. He mumbled, “Apologies,” but gave me a warning look.

“How so?” Ward asked.

“Well, I happened to stop in the other day to speak to one of your investment advisers. She was most helpful, by the way, but when I mentioned that a friend of mine had recently lost a family member who was an investment adviser at the firm, the woman I was speaking to got quite agitated.”

“Ah, you know Victor Cantrell’s family. So very sad. How are they doing?”

“As it happens, I was able to spend some time with his parents and his aunt recently. Unfortunately, they are not doing well. Not well at all. They adored their boy.” I let my mouth droop and puckered my eyebrows so I would look as sad as possible. “Which is why I was so surprised that the investment adviser I spoke to dismissed Victor as someone who was not at all a team player. She said he was persistent in trying to steal clients from other investment advisers, and he also tried to make the other advisers look bad in front of the higher-ups. Does any of that ring true to you?”

“I hate to speak ill of the dead,” Ward began. “Now, how shall I put this? Let’s just say that the senior staff was well aware of Victor’s proclivities. He had been warned more than once that we at Allbranch take care of one another. We do not pull ourselves up at the expense of someone else’s career. That kind of behavior is noticed and never tolerated. In fact, Victor himself had been told this on at least two occasions. The person you spoke to must be a very new member of the Allbranch team. Now, tell me, what is your next book about, and when will it be available to readers everywhere?”

The server brought a lovely array of food on a three-tiered stand, and the conversation turned to more social topics, but everything Ward said about Victor stayed uppermost in my mind. I couldn’t help but be disappointed that it was unlikely Victor was killed by a coworker for revenge since, as Harry would say, the bosses already “had Victor’s number.”

We all seemed to enjoy our food and our conversation. By the time we were nibbling on petit fours, I texted Mahmood and thanked Marshall and Ward for a wonderful afternoon. Ward again thanked me for signing his books and said he looked forward to seeing me again at the library fundraising cocktail party. Marshall walked me out of the building and to the curb, where I pointed out Mahmood’s taxi waiting a few feet away.

“Well, Jessica, I hope you got what you wanted out of meeting Ward, and I want to thank you for keeping your word. Not a mention of murder,” Marshall said as we walked to the cab. He kissed me on the cheek and opened the passenger door.

Mahmood pulled away from the curb and asked if I was going back to the hotel. When I said I was, he asked, “Did you sell a lot of books to the library man?”

“Not exactly, but I did sign some books for a gentleman who helps to fund the library.”

Mahmood nodded. “Ah, yes, that is a good beginning.”

Traffic was slow on Boylston, so Mahmood moved over to Stuart. I was thankful that we were back at the Revere faster than I thought we’d manage. Now I would have some of what my niece Donna calls “me time” before we were scheduled to leave for the comedy show.

As I rode up in the elevator, I realized that I could use a little comedy to cheer me. It had become more and more difficult to find anyone who had even the tiniest motive to kill Victor Cantrell, which left Aileen as a prime suspect. Any day now, I thought, Lieutenant Starkey would resume daily interrogations in the hopes of getting her to confess.

As I thought about it, I was surprised he hadn’t already begun.

* * *

Seven o’clock snuck up on me, and when I got to the lobby, both Seth and Harry were waiting. On the drive to the comedy club, I told them how unsuccessful I had been at tea with Marshall and Ward. “For the life of me, I can’t find a link between Victor’s murder and anyone at Allbranch.”

“Maybe that’s because the murderer’s connection to Victor lies elsewhere,” Harry said. “Take my advice—for the next few hours, let’s forget about crime and have a good time. Hey, I sound poetic.”

Seth and I laughed, and that was the beginning of a fun night out. The Nickel and Dime Comedy Club had a long bar in the rear and small round tables set in rows leading from the bar to the stage. Harry’s friend had arranged for us to have a table front row center. A basket of chips and a basket of pretzels were waiting for us midtable. Seth and Harry each ordered a beer while I opted for white wine.

Our drinks had just been served when the lights dimmed and a man who introduced himself as Calamity Joe told us we were in for a great night.

The opener was a young man and woman billed as Tony and Toni. They started by asking if we remembered the routine by Abbott and Costello known as “Who’s on First?” The entire audience clapped, laughed, and whistled at the very mention of the most famous comedy sketch of all time.

Tony, a tall dark-haired man with a long ponytail, said, “Well, tonight we’re going to update it for you. I hope you enjoy.”

Then he morphed his face, giving it a comedic look, and began to flirt with Toni, and her response brought down the house. The jokes were somewhat risqué at times, but I have to admit they were very funny—and poor Tony never got to second base.

There was a loud round of applause when they left the stage, and they came back for a second and then a third bow. Harry’s friend Max was up next, and he was introduced as the saddest sack since Sad Sack. He talked about how badly his career was going and how hard he struggled and frequently ended a joke with the phrase “I guess I’m just not funny,” which made us laugh all the more.

“See, I’m so bad at this comedy gig that I couldn’t pay my rent. So the landlord tossed me out on my can. Literally. He threw me in the trash can in the side yard. I guess I’m just not funny.”

The entire room clapped, laughed, and whistled again, and some stamped their feet. A voice from the back of the room shouted, “Been there, buddy.” Max yelled back, “Great! Maybe you can tell me how to get the smell out of my clothes?” and nearly brought the house down.

The show went on for another hour, and when it ended, Max stopped by our table to say hello. We thanked him for the tickets, and I said I found his work inspiring.

Harry said, “Maxie boy, take that as a compliment. She writes books, pretty good ones.”

Max was kind enough not to take that as a straight line, and he soon wished us a good night and moved on to sign coasters for some of his fans.

As we walked out to the parking lot, Seth said, “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight, Jess. Are you feeling all right?”

“I am fine. It’s been a busy day, and I have a lot of nonsense jumbling around in my head. Harry, do you think you could drive me to police headquarters in the morning? I really think it is time I speak with Lieutenant Starkey.”

“Sure,” Harry said, “we can go, but who knows if he’ll be there or if he’ll even take the time to see us.”

“I’m pretty confident he will want to see us,” I said as Seth opened the car door and I slid into the front passenger seat.

“Oh, Jess, you have that look. You’re onto something, aren’t you?” Seth said as he climbed in the seat behind me.

“Let’s hope so,” I said as Harry pulled out of the parking lot and drove toward our hotel.

* * *

I had a fitful night’s sleep, lots of tossing and turning, so when slivers of daylight began to peek through the blinds, I got up, made a pot of coffee, and reviewed my plan. I needed cooperation from two people. If Starkey would answer one question, and if Aileen Davis would do me a slight favor, we might find the answers we had been searching for since the moment Aileen came into Gilhooley’s crying and covered in Victor’s blood.

I was surprised when my phone rang at not quite seven thirty. And twice as surprised that it was Harry McGraw.

“What on earth are you doing up so early, or haven’t you gone to bed yet?” I teased.

“I was sound asleep and dreaming of winning my bets on all three races in the Triple Crown when my telephone jangled and woke me up. All your fault too, Jessica. I was trying to do you a favor.” Harry sounded morose.

“Oh, I am sorry, Harry, but since you are awake and I am awake, maybe you could just tell me about the favor and then you can go back to bed,” I said.

“I called Howard Sternhagan last night, but smart guy that he is, he turns his cell phone off when he goes to bed. I gotta start doing that. Anyway, he got my message and called to say that both he and Starkey are working days. Unless there’s a crisis, they should both be in the office around nine, nine thirty. What time should I pick you up?”

“Let’s leave here at nine o’clock. Give the lieutenant time to have his coffee,” I said, and we disconnected the call.

I knocked on Seth’s door before I went downstairs, but there was no answer. I should not have been surprised to see him in his usual chair in the lobby, perusing the Boston Globe.

I tapped him on the shoulder and said good morning.

He folded his newspaper and said, “Ayuh, wearing business attire again, are you? I guess bike riding is not on the agenda. Unless it is a library or bookstore event you are heading to, I imagine you’re in snoop mode.”

“And do you have any plans today? I ask because I may need your help.” I sounded extremely serious, even to myself.

Seth stood up, looked at me, and frowned. “Why must you always…oh, you don’t listen anyway. Just tell me what you need me to do.”

“That’s the problem—I am not quite sure. Harry will be picking me up in a few minutes. Perhaps it would be best if you came with us.”

“Come with you where?”

“To see Lieutenant Starkey.”

“And what makes you think he will see us?” Seth was beginning to sound quarrelsome.

“Seth, we have to try.”

Harry arrived about ten minutes later, and soon the three of us were in his car heading to police headquarters. He parked legally, for once, and we went to the front desk, where, at Harry’s suggestion, we said we were there to see Sergeant Sternhagan. The desk officer called upstairs and Sternhagan okayed us. We got our passes, and once we were in the elevator, Harry said, “Doc, did she tell you anything?”

“Not a peep.”

“Me neither,” Harry said.

“Oh, would you have a drop of patience,” I said.

The elevator doors opened, and Howard Sternhagan was leaning against the wall opposite. As we stepped out, he said quietly, “Before we go in, could someone tell me—”

Harry cut him off. “This is Jessica’s party and she ain’t talking.”

Sternhagan raised his eyes to the ceiling as if looking to be rescued by a bird, a plane, or perhaps an angel. Then he looked at me.

“I am sorry, Sergeant, but I’d rather speak with the lieutenant privately.”

Sternhagan brought us to his office and asked us to wait. He was back in a few minutes and looked far less upset than he’d been earlier. “Mrs. Fletcher, the lieutenant wants to see you and only you. And by the way, he said you have ten minutes.”

Harry began hooting, and Seth asked why I’d bothered to bring them along. I said nothing. I didn’t need them now, but I might need them later on.

Lieutenant Starkey was standing in the open doorway to his office. He gave me a bit of a smirk and asked what he could do for me. I asked him to close the door. Then I told him what I suspected and asked him to check some paperwork for me. Twenty minutes later, I was back in Sergeant Sternhagan’s office and said to Harry and Seth, “Everything is all set with the lieutenant. We can leave now.”

They were totally quiet until we handed in our passes and left the building. Then they threw questions at me right and left.

“Please just trust me. Let’s go to Cookie’s house and see how Aileen is getting on,” I said.

* * *

“This is a grand surprise,” Cookie said as he opened the door. “Come on in. Aileen’s in the kitchen. I think she’s making brownies.”

“It is Aileen I need to talk to,” I said.

Cookie, whose job involves reading people pretty accurately, gave me a sharp look and said, “Why don’t you go speak to her? I’ll wait out here with Harry and the doc.”

It took Aileen a while to understand what I needed and why. Finally she said, “Well, if you’re sure.”

“Not one hundred percent, but sure enough that this is worth a try,” I responded.

“Okay, then. Why don’t we go up to my room? That way we can let Dad and the others into the house. I have brownies cooling on the kitchen counter.”

Half an hour later, we came downstairs, and although Seth said, “Here come the ladies of mystery,” none of the men so much as asked what was going on.

Aileen put the kettle on, and she and I had tea in the kitchen. She offered me a brownie, but I decided to forgo the treats until later. Finally, I looked at the clock and said, “It’s time to go.”

I asked Harry if he could give me a ride, and I suggested that Seth wait at Cookie’s because Harry would be coming right back.

When we got in the car, I asked him to drive me to Victor’s apartment and explained why.

“Oh, no, you are not going in there alone.” Harry sounded adamant.

“I promise you, I won’t be alone, not for one minute. Starkey is already in place,” I said.

In a voice reeking with frustration, Harry said, “Why is it always cloak-and-dagger with you?”

“This is simply the surest way to catch a killer and to save Aileen from endless suspicion.”

“Why can’t I just park and wait for you?”

“Harry, the killer has to be surprised. We do not dare chance your being spotted.”

“Okay, I’ll be three or four blocks away. Text me when you need me and I’ll come running. Good luck.”

I got out of the car and walked quickly into the building. The lobby was empty, and I hurried up the stairs and unlocked Victor’s apartment door. Once inside, I snapped it shut again. Then I had nothing to do but pace in the living room until there was a knock on the door. The game was about to begin.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Iopened the door and said, “Hello, Mr. Anderson. Thank you for coming.”

“Hey, what is this? I was supposed to meet Cantrell’s girlfriend and…wait a minute, you were with that cop guy.” Anderson turned back toward the door.

“Calm down, he’s not a cop. He’s a private investigator and I work for him. The girl’s father hired him to find out who really killed Victor Cantrell.

“This morning she told me that when we met you in the hallway the other day, she knew Victor owed you a lot of back rent, but she didn’t want to say anything in front of me and Harry. After she called you today and offered to pay Victor’s debt, she realized she couldn’t face coming into this apartment again, so she asked me to deliver this.” I took a bulky sealed manila envelope out of my purse.

Anderson reached for it, but I pulled it back.

“Just for my own satisfaction, why don’t you just admit you killed him?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Why in the world would I do that?” Anderson began backing away toward the door again.

“Because of this.” I held up a plastic baggie with the small piece of paper I had found standing against the leg of the couch. “You can look but don’t touch.”

“What does that scrap mean?” He came closer, peering at the bag.

“By itself nothing, but when you match it to this”—I handed him a legal document I took from my purse—“it makes for interesting reading.”

SUMMARY PROCESS (EVICTION) SUMMONS AND COMPLAINT

“The font and size of the print are an exact match. You were here to serve this eviction notice on Victor, and the two of you got into a scuffle. You pushed him, and he fell and hit his head. What puzzles me is why you then put the pillow over his face and suffocated the life out of him. Over a few months’ rent? It doesn’t make sense.”

Anderson abruptly pulled a knife from his pocket. “I hate to do this. Two dead bodies and I won’t be able to give this apartment away. But you are too smart for your own good.”

From the bedroom doorway, Starkey said, “Drop the knife or I will drop you,” and he held his revolver steady.

Starkey called for backup and I texted Harry, who came through the door right behind the police officers. He put an arm around me and said, “That was the worst half hour of my life. No more of this, you hear me?”

“Harry, you should have heard her,” the lieutenant said. “She has all the confidence of a career undercover officer.”

Harry said, “I wasn’t worried about her. Jessica’s better than a pro. It was being left in my car, out of the loop, just sitting around waiting—my heart can’t take it.”

We all laughed. Then I thanked Lieutenant Starkey for having faith in me.

“Well, Mrs. Fletcher, when you asked me to run through Victor’s financials for the last time he paid his rent and we found he hadn’t paid in months, that did give me pause. Then when you hatched this plan, we got a court order to search any and all electronics in Anderson’s possession and found a copy of the eviction notice still in his laptop. How did you know the scrap of paper was from an eviction notice?”

“Well, that scrap had me so curious that I began looking online at various kinds of legal papers. Then Harry and I were at a comedy club last night, and one of the jokes was about an e-VIC-tion. The light bulb clicked on. So this morning, I looked online and found the summary papers regarding eviction and saw that it matched this little scrap perfectly,” I said. “Besides, I always thought it was strange how Victor owed money to half the world, yet his landlord spoke of him as though he were a model tenant. It just didn’t feel right.”

Harry said, “I’m telling you, Starkey, don’t ever go against her ‘feelings.’ ”

We all laughed and I said, “If you need me later today, Lieutenant, I will be at Cookie Davis’s house telling Aileen the good news.”

When we arrived, Aileen had already told Seth and her father about my plan, which we had set in motion once I heard from Lieutenant Starkey that Sternhagan had found the eviction notice on Anderson’s laptop. Starkey had used Victor’s key to get into the apartment before I got there, Aileen had called Anderson, and then I went in her place. So there was very little for me to tell them other than the actual confrontation with Anderson.

We were sitting around the kitchen table when the doorbell rang, and Cookie came back to the kitchen with Lieutenant Starkey at his heels. Aileen offered him a seat. He thanked her but said he couldn’t stay. “There is one thing I thought you should know. Since all the signs were there that this was a crime of opportunity, I know we’re all wondering about Anderson’s motive. The head injury was an accident, so once Cantrell was down and unconscious, why not call an ambulance? Why place a pillow over his face and smother him?”

“It was not anger over the back rent?” I suggested.

“Not at all. When Anderson confronted Cantrell over the rent, Cantrell took the eviction notice, tore it up, and flung the pieces on the floor. It seems that he overheard Anderson bribing a building inspector. He told Anderson that he would never have to pay rent again because he had the conversation on tape.”

“And was there such a tape in Victor’s possessions?” I asked.

“Not that we’ve found. Cantrell may have just been bluffing, and that bluff cost him his life.”

Cookie invited Starkey to sit down and have a brownie, and when he said he didn’t have time, Aileen packed some to take with him. She walked him to the door, and when she came back, she smiled at us all and said, “It really is over.”

* * *

There had been moments when it seemed like Seth and I had been in Boston for an extraordinarily long time, but now, sitting in the back of Gilhooley’s and looking around the long table at friends both old and new, I realized that I would miss everyone who had come here this evening to wish us a safe journey home to Cabot Cove. That included Marty and Shirley, who I was happy to have as our servers for the evening. I knew they had both been very kind to Cookie—their coworker and, more important, their friend—during Aileen’s difficulties.

Harry McGraw stood and clinked his glass of Guinness with a spoon to get everyone’s attention. Then he held the glass high in the air. “To Jessica Fletcher and Doc Hazlitt, we all wish you an easy trip home, and we hope you’re back in Boston for a longer visit soon.”

There were cheers of “Hear, hear” from all around the table. Cookie had traded his night off with another bartender so that he could join us. Aileen, radiant and smiling, sat between her father and Mary Jo Carmody. Marshall Stryback, even with his extremely busy schedule, had quickly accepted my invitation. And now he was sitting next to Mary Jo. I was sure once he found out that both she and Aileen were teachers, the three of them would devise some special library programs for the children in Aileen’s and Mary Jo’s classes. I was delighted when Mahmood not only accepted but asked if he could bring his wife, Zara, who was “very curious” to meet me.

There were two empty chairs remaining, and barring some unforeseen police business, I dearly hoped that Lieutenant Starkey and Sergeant Sternhagan would join us before long. It would sadden me to leave without saying good-bye.

Marty came to the table carrying two ten-inch skillets, each filled with a pretzel ring beer cheese dip. He placed one at each end of the table, and Shirley followed behind him, setting an appetizer plate in front of each of us as well as before the two empty chairs. Then she showed us how to use a pie server to cut our slices, and we all laughed when she told us not to let Cookie be in charge of the pretzel rings, as he was far better at pouring drinks than at serving food.

Marty returned and this time put three small plates here and there around the table. They each held eight cabbage dumplings. I immediately tried one and discovered it was filled with ground pork, ginger, cilantro, garlic, and I couldn’t tell what else, but it was absolutely delicious.

Shirley and Marty handed each of us a menu listing the specials of the day, but I was set on ordering my favorite, shepherd’s pie, so I wasn’t distracted by the menu when the front door opened and Lieutenant Starkey and Sergeant Sternhagan came bounding over to our table. While Sternhagan apologized for being late, Lieutenant Starkey thrust a mixed bouquet of gorgeous spring tulips, hyacinths, and daffodils toward me.

“Here you go, Mrs. Fletcher. Have a safe trip home and promise me that the next time you come to Boston our get-togethers will be strictly social. Give me your word that no matter what happens, you won’t get yourself nearly killed by interfering with my police work.”

“That would be a first,” Harry said.

And every one of my Boston friends, be they old or new, laughed out loud.

About the Authors

Jessica Fletcher is a bestselling mystery writer who has a knack for stumbling upon real-life mysteries in her hometown of Cabot Cove, Maine, and on her travels. Award-winning writer Terrie Farley Moran has coauthored many titles in this bestselling series.

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